


Lulls in the Sea

by sayanara



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, One Shot Collection, Ratings and Genres Vary, Review and Request, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayanara/pseuds/sayanara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lull: a temporary interval of quiet or lack of activity." A collection of eremika drabbles taking place during the respites of their daily lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hers

**Author's Note:**

> A lil' smutty drabble I wrote in response to the recent Ch.70 spoilers outrage in tumblr where some people in the fandom were calling Mikasa rude names for no reason. I made this as my own means of revenge and I'm putting it up here for those of you who don't follow me on tumblr (where I normally post updates of my stories so GO FOLLOW ME THERE OK THANKS).
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Genre: Smut

She doesn't even know where to start.

There's too many thoughts unspoken, far too much gone far too long unsaid. The vehemence of her emotions spur a violent calamity inside her mind. Emotions. Emotions. They twist, they whirl, they mix, they burn.

They're dangerous.

They leave burn marks on her skin, searing with the painstaking shedding of her clothes, steaming in the absence of her words when he slinks his hand down the front of her pants and breaches her underwear.

There's a thin slice of air that slips in through her front teeth.

A gasp pressed to his chin when he reaches down lower.

And no words. No words. No words spoken between them.

Sentences curl into knots within her throat, lodged in the passage and she can't speak, she can't breathe, he's pulling back to look at her and she can't see or hear or feel anything but him, only this, only Eren, Eren, Eren.

He moves his hand against her, and he does it so good, so nice, so careful. He's patient. She's not. She rolls her hips up eagerly, says  _yes_ , says  _just like that_ , says  _move faster_.

He doesn't have the heart to say no to her.

Like always, he complies.

Her eyelids flutter shut, catching glimpses green before flickering to black and then green and then back to darkness. She chooses to keep her eyes closed, to keep her thoughts sealed, to let nothing but her senses govern, her breathing deepen, her heavy sighs replace her voice.

I've missed you.

What's happened?

I've worried so much.

The words are knocking on her teeth, urging to break free and spill out of her—but he cuts them short, he doesn't let them. He kisses her. He lets her taste his strength, his need, his longing in her mouth.

And that's good enough.

That's good enough for now.

Her bare back arches over the mattress, an endearing arc to inspire his motions, imploring him to go on. Her fingers start fumbling with her zipper, popping the button, granting him more space to move. She feels tremendous heat bubbling up her cheeks, slithering down her tummy, crawling over her body and pooling in her gut, something hot and thick settling there, split in half by a cold shiver that runs up her spine. He's pressing his palm to her sensitive bundle of nerves, teasing her entrance with the tip of his finger and she's gasping, biting back a whine, her eyelids scrunched shut tightly.

His lips brush the curvature of her ear.

He whispers.

"You're soaked."

And by this point, Mikasa's already begun to lose it.

She doesn't even know where to start.

So she just tells him.

She begs.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Take it off."

"Take what off?"

He smiles at the way she stretches her neck back and whines, frustrated.

"Okay, okay," he whispers, pressing small kisses to the point of her chin. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Blue-greens blaze. He promises, "I will."

Mikasa hums, content.

She's his.

She's his entirely.

It doesn't matter that it's been too long since they last did this, that her skin's grown thin with constant wear from battle and that her muscles feel sore and depleted now, because wasted embers burst to flames once he hooks his fingers on the waistline of her jeans and pulls—with one swift movement—ridding her of what's left of her clothes. She raises her hips to help him, shimmying a bit, breathing out a laugh when her pant legs get stuck around her thighs and he has to tug a little harder, smile a little brighter, bring his lips to her skin and laugh quietly against her.

She hears the dull rustling of her clothes being flung across the bedroom, and she looks down, spreads her legs for him, watches him drool.

He's hers.

He's hers entirely.

"You're—"

"Mhm."

"Mikasa." A pause. "You're sure."

She sighs, fighting the urge to nudge him with her foot.

"Of course I am, Eren."

"Okay," he nods.

"Okay," she nods too.

His hands clutch her calves firmly, pulling her to him, and she slides down on the bed, raven hair splayed beautifully over the snowy bed sheets as she breathes, turns pink, all pretty, smiling because she's missed him, because she loves him, because there's still so much she needs to say.

But he cuts her short again.

He kisses her in a completely different way.

Her back can't help but arch again once he touches her, his mouth meeting the junction of her thighs with one open-mouthed kiss, the kind that makes her heart skip because his breath is hot and intimate against her, filling her, breathing her in.

Then she feels his tongue.

Flicking.

Delving.

Reaching deeper lick by lick.

And she can't help it. She can't help it when she gasps and whimpers his name.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, nails scratching his scalp lightly and he's taking his time to feel her, taste her, to kiss her engorged clit and bring it into his mouth idly. He starts sucking. She feels herself break. The simmering in her cheeks and chest rises to a boil, stomach flittering and churning, skin burning beneath his touch as his callused hands venture up and down the milky smoothness of her thighs, gripping them to bring her closer, hold her down, pinning her hips to the mattress and sinking his thumbs into her skin as he licks her and she moans and she's so helpless, she can't help it, she moans. She yanks mindlessly at a fist-full of his hair, earning a groan from him, the sound muffled into her core and vibrating through her and making her mewl senselessly.

Suddenly, he breaks away, causing her to hiss in her frustration. "Shhh, we have to be quiet," but then he runs his tongue along the insides of her thighs without waiting for her answer, spreading her even wider with his hands, suckling her pale, tender skin as she peers down at him hazily, panting, watching him graze her with his teeth. He bites her leg. She gives a squeal. They both start tittering and laughing.

"Shhh," he grins, looking up at her, pressing a kiss to her skin, right below her naval. "Quiet, quiet."

Mikasa nods, breathless. "Sorry."

"'S okay."

And she realizes how much she's missed him.

She's missed him so much. She's not even sure how she survived these past few weeks without him. It's like she's suddenly had to—

A sudden shock of euphoria interrupts her thoughts.

He rasps his tongue on her clit roughly, making her throw her head back and choke back a sob. She slaps a hand over her mouth, melting, gripping frantically at the bed sheets by both sides of her head as he moves his tongue against her. He keeps sucking on her softly, lapping at the sensitive nub, eliciting shaky whines and curses she keeps trying so desperately to keep inside. His deft fingers glide up her torso, titillating her skin, playing with her maddened senses until his hands find both her breasts and squeeze. She struggles more and more to stifle back her noises, sweat beading on her face with the effort, sticking her bangs to her forehead as she clutches his hands on her chest and groans—she can't help it, can't possibly hold it in anymore. It's too good, too much, too blissful to have him with her again.

One of his hands reaches south, skimming over the bottom of her right thigh before throwing it over his shoulder. She feels his digits pressing into her entrance, slipping gradually inside her and she's crying out before she even thinks to stop.

Slowly, he's pushing in one.

Two.

Three fingers.

And he's stretching her out, prying her open, causing beads of pleasure to swell in the corners of her eyes. She's pulling frantically on the sheets by her head, face contorting in her pleasure and as the tension's building up, coiling in every muscle and she feels herself getting close, she feels herself coming, she tells him and he doesn't stop, he makes sure to keep on going until she's shaking and she's lost and she's his and only his.

His fingers leave her and his tongue reaches down to taste her, drinking in all her sweetness and eating her out until her keens take flight into one long, drawn-out moan that cuts itself short by a sudden jerk of her hips and she's coming, gasping, his name strangled in her throat.

When she's done, he crawls over her, planting quick kisses up her body, brushing the tip of his nose against hers and swiping her hair away from her face.

Mikasa opens her eyes.

She looks at him.

There's still so much she needs to say, so much more she's got to tell him—but the thoughts unspoken dissipate into space, the things left unsaid crumble down to nothing. They don't matter. Not anymore. She sums it all up into three little words, knowing that the invincibility of their truth should do her emotions justice.

"I love you."

Eren stares at her, serious, leaning in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Quietly, he breathes:

"I love you too, Mikasa."

Then she bites her lower lip, he kisses the pinkness of her cheeks, and she gasps once she notices a group of fresh, scarlet bruises blotching his neck and left shoulder.

"Did I do that?"

"Yup."

For a moment, she's mortified, covering her face, apologizing.

"It's okay," he tells her, even thought they both know it's not. "Trust me, I don't mind them."

"You don't?"

"Nope."

"But what will happen if the others see?"

He sighs, booping her little nose with his. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

Eren puffs out a snort, kissing her again—on the mouth this time. "I'm sure, Mikasa."

Good.

Let them know he's hers.


	2. Tremor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aanother outrage spurred in the fandom (over the rivamika kiss on the live-actions movie trailer) and so another angry revenge smut fic popped out of my ass. Enjoy.
> 
> Rating: M for make love not ship hate
> 
> Genre: Smut

Hunger and cold correlate in one very particular manner:

They both induce uncontrollable trembling.

Shaking of the hands, legs, arms—even her bones feel like they are cold, even her flesh feels like it is starving. Desperate doesn't quite suit the violence of her emotions.

Famished.

Freezing.

Those two words do.

Because when her back meets the wall and his hands are scathing her skin and cutting through to her flesh and every fiber in her being's set ablaze she knows, she knows, she knows what it is to be starving.

And she shakes.

She shakes everywhere.

Overwhelmed, her hands move to grab onto him—his shirt, his face, his hair, anything—but they're pinned to the wall over her head, her hips are trapped with a languid rut from his and then her lips are parting in a pseudo  _avast_ , her body defying her, legs spread and chest heaving and the room spins and just about everything is fire except for the leisured stroll of his hands laving down her frame.

He never stops kissing her.

Every inch of her aches.

Her hunger is omnipresent, her cold an evanescent hiss traversing her lips into heat as she melts against the wall, perspiring and dripping but a sudden hand wedged between her legs freezes her back up in place rigidly.

A hum into his mouth.

Another sham assail.

Her limbs tremble and provoke her, mouth hissing  _no_ , the lazy roll of her hips pronouncing  _yes_. A messy band of contradictions the way she shakes her head but gives in to the measured strokes of his hand. He feels her through her clothes, the front of her skirt bunched up and pressed between their stomachs, and her mind's addled once his fingers touch her  _right there_ , resume their journey upward, and then dip down past her hem.

His breath is hot against her neck, hers is strangled in a gasp, and then his fingers are raw and deft and wet with what he gives her. Slow, slow, slow so  _slow_  they move so slow against her, rubbing and then diving and then she feels them slip into her core.

A ravenous hand, fist bunching up his hair, her cry pressed against his shoulder and muffled into his clothes. Her defenses crumble, stern facades break, the icy planes of her features crack and split to reveal something wholly vulnerable. The frantic thrusts of his fingers inside her quake along her system and then his name— _Eren,_ _please_ —is all it takes to make the frigid hunger end.

Haphazard fingers scramble their way to her hips and she's curving them over the waistband of her panties, his fingers leaving her—a final brush against her apex to tempt her in their egress—and then he's helping her rid herself of her underwear, both of them panting, both of them shaking, the rickety wall behind them is the sturdiest out of the three.

The flimsy fabric is silk smoothing down her legs before she feels it pooling around her ankles, scarcely a single foot freed and he's already cradling the backs of her thighs with his hands to hoist her up against the wooden panel. Her legs snare his waist, vipers that cling on for dear life and she hooks her feet behind him at the ankles—her panties still dangling daintily from the one, a lewd juxtaposition to the feather-like buss he presses to her clavicle.

Shoulder.

Neck.

Jaw.

Cheek.

Lips leave every sliver of skin they touch molten. She has to whimper when they trap her mouth in his, lost in the thrall of his fervor and she has half the mind to rid him of his shirt, the other half prompting for her hands to linger on his skin and he's so warm and feverish, rippled muscles hard against the palm of her hands and she can't help it when the latter half governs.

His hands assuage her agony when they skim over her breasts, shirt parted open from the previous few moments and a fleeting flash of fear shoots through her mind when she contemplates the possibility of him ripping her bra right apart to tear it off her—the firm grope of his hands on her supple mounds deflects any further thoughts immediately, though.

She moans.

His belt's unbuckled, button and zipper undone and there's nothing left to stand between them. She's ready, he's ready, but he's still taking his time to cover every tiny spot of naked skin on her and she knows he's being tentative because—

"Do you want me?"

"Yes."

His shirt is still on him.

She draws the fabric up in her hands.

Legs, arms, and soul are all wrapped tight around him and then gasp, tremor, groan and he's finally inside her. Their chests are flush against each other—bloat, heave, bloat, heave, bloat, heave—and she feels his breaths like if they're her own, his heart beating and beating and beating and she's not hungry anymore, she's not cold, she's burning up and her cheeks and lips are red and she's satisfied and full, full to the brim with  _Eren_.

His one hand's a fist over her head, forearm to the wall, the other hand brushing up the side of her leg and pushing back the rumpled cascade of her long skirt, brushing brushing brushing until he cups her ass, brings down his arm and does the same with the other.

His lips align with hers.

Her heart beats faster.

"Eren."

Teal-greens unveil to stare at shimmering grays.

"Move."

Famished.

Freezing.

He's the one who feels it now.

Every retreat and snap of his hips is a frantic attempt to pull her heat closer, every grunt and set of teeth sunken into her shoulder is a desperate claw at a lost meal, her soft moans against his ear and breathless pants of his name are little treats that fuel him to go faster, harder, until the only thing left is the broken cry of his name ripping her lips apart and his scorching heat spilling inside her.

Her back is sore from grinding against the wall.

Her panties still dangle from her ankle.

Both of them shake.


	3. Strong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if Mikasa ever feels weak at times. Judging by the fact she's just a 15-year-old girl, I'm pretty sure she does. This is a petty drabble I wrote in twenty minutes for no particular reason. Don't mind me. I'm just an angsty ball of rage lately.
> 
> Note: Takes place around those painful chapters where they were apart.
> 
> Rating: K+
> 
> Genre: Angst

Strong.

She needs to be strong.

Sometimes, when she's lost in her dreams, something sharp awakens her. A pain. Intense. Burning up her chest and crackling like fire—she hears it. She wonders if anyone else notices, if they can smell the smoke, see the droop of her lids or the swollen bags under her eyes and know that something's troubling her. She hasn't slept in days. Each night, she is awoken by a sting, a singe, a scathing imprint that reminds her she's not normal, she never has been, she never will be. She can't be, she can't.

Normal isn't battle scars and bruises.

Normal isn't manly muscles under girly skin.

Normal isn't holding a hand to your mouth at night so no one hears you crying.

Normal isn't weak. She's weak. Everyone calls her strong but look at her, look at her, she's crying, she's so weak.

She's a woman now, and yet she's only just a girl. How does one regress in age as the years merely add up? She thinks maybe it's because she lost her mom, her dad, everything. She's fifteen now. She's not a girl anymore—and yet she finds herself crying, yearning for her mom. Like a child, yearning, wanting nothing more but to be home, to be allowed just one moment of weakness, just one.

Warm arms coiled safely around her, deep inhales to fill her lungs with her spicy scent, damp pecks pressed to her forehead, slender fingers gliding through her hair, whispered words that promise her she's safe, she's safe, she always will be. Mom. Mom. She misses Mom.

Dad.

Carla.

She misses home.

Home.

She misses  _Eren_.

Her normal is pretending, fighting, forcing her feet to go on even when they've forgotten how to or why they even should. Normal is training, improving her skills, toning her muscles, hissing through the pain when she punches her knuckles raw. Normal is saying nothing, showing nothing—she can't let the others see. She shouldn't.

Be strong, she tells herself. Be strong.

But her sense of self has become muddled, foggy blurs of what she is and what she should be mixing in her head in the most dangerous of ways. Sometimes they consume her, control her every thought. She burns to ashes and nobody sees it, nobody knows it, every atom in her body  _screams_  and yet nobody can hear.

There's always the threat of failing, of taking a single step wrong, of drowning in her thoughts until she loses herself. Of seeing Mom and forgetting everything. Of seeing Carla and wondering where she went wrong. Daddy. Dr. Jaeger. What could she do? What could she do? What more could she have done to save them?

And Eren.

Where is he?

What are they doing to him?

How long will he be gone?

She's blazing, she's tearing, there's a gaping hole somewhere deep inside, a breach into her core that drips and weeps with need, with confusion, with regret and worry and her anger stretches it open, open, open until she can take no more.

She holds a hand to her mouth.

She cries.

She falls asleep like that. Weak. Crying.

But then the next day, morning comes. It always comes. It's always there to greet her.

Her response is slipping on her her gear, fastening every buckle and lading on the 3DMG, clad in strength and force and honor and even if her every atom screams, if her cracks and crevices oozes, even if she doubts herself and yearns for mom and cries, she is not normal, she is not human—not for now, not until they find him. For now, she's a machine, a war toy, and so she chooses strength.

She is strong, she is strong, she is strong.

It's the only thing she can be.


	4. Balloon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do one where Eren comforts her? His natural disposition is to be an ass, but oh god, that girl deserves some loving." —AeardolHira2078
> 
> Yes, yes, I agree!
> 
> Rating: K+
> 
> Genre: Comfort. Fluff.

He never knows what do to when she gets like this.

She's quiet.

—Yes, okay, he knows she's always quiet. Whatever.

But  _still_.

This quiet is different. This quiet is glum. Empty. It's vacant stares and lips pressed tight and eyebrows slightly furrowed. It's fingers fiddling and feet tapping and slow blinking and barely-there shadows that cross her features every now and then. It's all tiny, imperceptible movements that he barely catches by the hair—but he does. He always does.

He never knows what to do when she gets like this.

Eren makes a promise to himself that as soon as day breaks and night falls, he'll make a move to approach her. He contemplates what he'll say, contrives his procedure: he'll be gentle. He tells himself he'll be patient. No getting mad at her if she chooses not to talk about it and brushes him off. No getting frustrated and losing his shit if she turns away from him and leaves him hanging. No huffing and puffing vapidly like an angry cow. No being an asshole, Eren. No being an ass.

But then day breaks.

Night falls.

And the time to talk to her's arrived. He finds himself standing idly behind her, staring at her back, curling his fingers into fists and—

"Mikasa."

He hears a crack in his own voice.

He hopes she doesn't.

Mikasa turns around. Looks at him. Blinks twice.

"Hm?"

"Uh—" And suddenly the words escape him. Just like that. Gentleness hops out of his mouth and walks away and bids a  _sayonara_. Patience shrivels up into a coil of insecurity and disintegrates into dust.

She turns around.

Walks away from him.

Something deep inside him is what cracks now—not just his voice.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm tired."

"You didn't even let me talk!"

"I already know what you're going to ask me."

"Mikasa." His annoyance is evident in his tone. He sighs out of his nostrils (so much for not acting like an angry cow). She just keeps on walking. His hands reach out.

"Can you—" Fingers clasp around her wrist. "Can you stop?" Cool eyes meet him. "Please?"

Her sigh is so remorseful, it weeps as it leaves her mouth. "What?"

"Why are you being like this?"

"I already told you. I'm tired."

"No." She tries to pull her wrist free. He holds her tighter. "You're lying to me."

A tinge of sadness winces in her eyes. She sighs again, heavier this time.

"You really want to know?"

"Yes."

She turns around, curves her fingers over his.

Whispers.

" _I'm on that time of the month."_

Eren's eyes blink so slow, he puts Captain Levi's acerbic expressions to shame.

Despite herself, Mikasa snorts out a tiny (very, very tiny) laugh.

"I know there's more to it than that. Please. Tell me. You're worrying me, Mikasa." This gets her to soften up a little. (But just a little). So he presses on. "You've been acting like this for two whole days."

A startled blink. "Two?"

"Yeah!"

"You exaggerate."

"NO I DON'T!"

She cringes at his tone. "Eren." There's that weeping sigh again. "Don't scream."

He swallows, mutters a small "I'm sorry" as his eyes linger on the gentle movement of her chest. She inhales, exhales, turns her gaze away.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

It takes him a moment to realize she's opening up—slowly, very slowly—but she is. He clears his throat, collecting himself, mustering up what gentleness he can find within himself to ask, "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know."

"Please." They're standing in the middle of the hallway. Her face is illuminated by the flames of the torch scones on the wall, a steady light that flickers when a cloud of darkness drifts over her expression. He captures her chin with careful fingers, lilts her face up so that she'll look him in the eyes. "Talk to me."

Another sigh. Even sadder. It slaps him in the face.

"Lately, I've… I've just been feeling a little…  _odd_."

"Odd?"

He's still holding her chin, so she doesn't nod, only hums, "Mhm."

"Like, in what way?"

"It's so silly." She goes to move her face away from him—he doesn't let her.

"Tell me."

Her words come out in intervals, unsure. "I feel like… sometimes…" and then she grabs his wrist, pulls his hand away from to cradle it inside her own. Her skin is smooth against his callused fingers, nails digging subtly into his skin and she grips tight, whispers, "You know when your mom used to take us to those street carnivals back when we were little? Remember how the streets were always filled with balloons?"

He nods.

"And sometimes we'd see vendors filling them up so much that they got super super huge but then they'd get careless and the balloons would pop?"

He nods again. "Yeah."

"Like that. That's how I feel."

A furrow settles over his brows. Dumbly, he exclaims, "Like a vendor popping balloons?"

"No-ho," it comes out as an amused whisper, but still somber in the least. "Like the balloon itself. Like sometimes I'm just full of so much… stuff. So much… painful stuff. And it gets to the point where I feel like I could just... burst." Her eyes glint in the glow of the fire, searching his face, dropping to the ground when she lets go of his hand and whispers yet again. "I told you it'd be silly."

He shakes his head, but because her eyes are held downward she doesn't see this.

"Why do you feel that way?"

"I don't really know." There's a different kind of glint in her eyes now. He prays, really, really prays, that it's not the sheen presence of tears. "Maybe I just… I don't know."

"Miss too many people? Doubt yourself? Work too hard? Your hormones are going crazy because it's that time of the month?"

A weak smile. "Perhaps."

"Hey," and he captures her chin again, raises her head, pulls her swimming eyes to his and promises, "everything's gonna be okay, alright? I won't let anything bad happen to you. I'll always protect you. I promise," and perhaps these are not the words she thought she'd hear (heck,  _he's_  surprised in himself for even saying them) because her lacquered orbs grow wide, her lips part into a little 'o'. Despite her expression, he continues. "But you need to tell me these things! Don't keep your emotions from me. Tell me! How do you expect me to know when you're feeling like a balloon if you never tell me?"

The most relieving sound is her laugh, quickly replaced by a quiet murmur, "It sounds even sillier when you say it like that."

"Oh, come on, now." He lets go of her face, gripping her forearms, chirping, "You know those weird probing thingies Hanji always carries around for her experiments? Sometimes she carries around a random wrench?"

"Yeah."

"Sometimes I feel like that. Like a wrench."

"A wrench, Eren?"

"A wrench."

She wrinkles her little nose. (At least the tears are gone now).

"How can you feel like a wrench?"

"Because sometimes I feel like I'm only used to fix things. But then, like a wrench handled the wrong way, I always end up messing things up."

"That's not true."

"Also, I can be used as an object to kill things." He's grinning as he says this, but Mikasa only shakes her head.

"That's a horrible comparison. You don't resemble a wrench in any way."

"You're right," he sighs. "I don't. Wrenches are stiff and I still can't harden."

And that, right there, does it. Her entire face opens up in astonishment, large, saucer eyes blinking a few times before she snorts and then he does too and then he swears—he swears, he swears, he swears—he sees a tinge of scarlet on her cheeks.

His smile only broadens.  _Pervert,_  he calls her in his head.

Her voice is so fragile and puny, he wants to reach out and hold it in his hands. "You'll get it someday," and then he doesn't wait for her to say more.

He hugs her.

Her face meets his chest and he's never realized how tall he's gotten, how soft she feels, how strong and solid her body is against his and it's a very dangerous realization when something stirs within his gut and he realizes he's enjoying this discovery tremendously.

He cradles the back of her head with his hand, burying his nose into her hair and it's the most affection he's shown her in ages—her startled stiffness proclaims that she, too, is alarmed—but he holds her with all his might, inhaling her scent, knowing that he may not know how to word himself correctly at times, (and by "at times" he means most of the time), but if there is anything that is true in this world, is that this girl is one of the only things he has left of his family, of his home, of himself. "Tell me when you feel sad from now on," he whispers, his voice lost in her silky tresses but her quiet hum tells him that she hears him. "Please. I don't want you keeping anything from me, no matter what it is. It drives me crazy with worry. Just be honest with me. I won't ever judge you, you know that."

Her arms slink around his waist, and he's glad he mustered up the courage to approach her, to assemble his fervor into tenderness, to make a fool of himself with petty comparisons just to see a smile on her face. He thinks that with time, he could definitely get used to this: softening his sharp edges to match her calm demeanor, tame his wild calamities to meet her in the middle and bring himself to understand. He knows that, with practice, he'll be able to do this more and more: convince her that there's no such thing as a silly issue, as a feeling that's for naught, that it's okay to be weak at times, to feel sad, that even Mikasa Ackerman isn't perfect and that's perfectly okay, that's fine, that's completely acceptable.

But for now, he holds her, just holds her, and speaks into her hair.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

And his insides bloat with something close to happiness, swelling, swelling, swelling and her soft scent is so real it makes him light-headed and full and he feels like he may pop.

Like a balloon.


	5. Influx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eren really, really loves to see mikasa come completely undone. imagine him pleasuring her until she's senseless and having multiple orgasms and she'd just be a whimpering mess. after that both proceed to cuddle until they fall asleep?" —anonymous
> 
> Somehow, this came out angstier than what I had initially intended. I strayed a little at the end but I hope you like this, anon. I tried to stay true to your headcanon and was initially going to wait a few days before posting this but, well, I got mad and retaliation fics are my escape. (Psst, I totally agree with your headcanon btw *wink*).
> 
> Rating: M for mother of God have mercy
> 
> Genre: Smut

He starts by covering every inch of her.

Building the anticipation that lathers every expanse of her naked skin. Bones quiver. Breaths hitch. The world spins and spins until, finally, it all hangs upside down.

Her head spills off the side of the bed, the hand she holds to her forehead—feverish and beading with sweat—clenching, her breaths rushing out of her lungs in hoarse whispers, his lips everywhere all at once and it's like even the hairs that are rising to a point across her body are telling her to  _keep it down_.

He takes his time. His lips are patient. They smooth the tendon that stretches by the junction of her thighs; traveling, traveling, and soon he's teething some place really,  _really_  sensitive, dragging his tongue lower, lower, then up, up, up in one languid stroke so that he gets her taste in his mouth.

Fuck.

It's like he  _wants_  her to scream.

She hears herself gasping, absent-mindedly telling him to stop whilst simultaneously telling him not to and everything's such chaos; the way he chuckles against her thigh makes her faint and she  _feels,_  more than  _hears,_  the low grumbling in his throat and then fuck, fuck, fuck he's right there again, right there,  _right there_  and now she's seeing pitch black and she's suffocating.

"Eren—!"

"Shhh."

A desolate mewl.

Grumbles.

He's laughing again.

It's taking everything in her to keep her voice down, face buried under the crook of her elbow, cooking bright red within the furnace, shivers and spasms playing around her flesh and all the blood's rushing to her head, consuming her thoughts and drowning them.

One lick.

Two.

And a heated grind of his tongue on her clit and that's when she  _really_  starts to lose it.

Her neck cranes and her senses wail and then both her arms are dangling off the bed in capitulation, upper body arching as a syrupy groan drips out of her mouth. She gasps for more, the suspense he'd taken his time to build bursting and smoking and she's halfway through another lopsided, breathless  _yes, Eren,_   _ **yes**_ when suddenly—

He stops.

Mikasa wilts in dismay, whimpering, nerves buzzing in withdrawal but he just grabs her legs and pulls her to him, her body sliding down and pulling the sheets under her weight until he's kneeling on the bed and placing her foot over his shoulder.

"So cruel," she breathes, peering down at him, feeling his smile on her skin before he kisses her ankle and simpers.

"Nonsense."

Eren watches as she shakes her head, cheeks boiling bright, bright red and her hair's spilled on the bed like ink slapped onto snow. He loves the sight of her arms thrown defenselessly over her head, of her ribcage rising and falling and pushing against the walls of her skin, her stomach taut and lean with muscle, breasts small but full and her peaks are hard, supple lips parted with her pants and he takes a moment to admire her, skating his fingertips down her shin, biting his lip because words can't possibly describe how amazing it is to have her with him, to see her like this, to know that he's the only one who ever gets to.

She sees him staring.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Nonsense," she mimics, smiling softly.

(Gods, he fucking loves her.)

She's wriggling her foot to try to pinch his earlobe with her toes, a snort puffing out of him while he tries to shrink his head away, hissing "stop" but she's snickering and he loves it, fuck, he loves that sound. He nuzzles his nose on her skin before kissing his way down her leg, flinging it over his shoulder and taking his time to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses on her inner thighs, laving his tongue on her skin and it's so damn worth it when she sighs, so damn worth it when he throws her other leg over his shoulder and works his tongue between her folds and hears her moan, feels her arching, one of her hands flying down to hold his hair and the other clutching the sheets above her head and it's all so damn worth it, so great.

He drags his tongue along her core, relishing in the tang of her arousal. The noises she's emitting fuel him to no end, and now he's famished, starving to hear her voice grow louder, louder, her usually stoic demeanor crumbling bit by bit until she's splintering wide open and screaming his name.

Her hips try to move but he holds them down with one hand, teasing his tongue into her entrance and she's gasping, fretting, gripping frantically at his hair and he's going crazy with the way she moans his name again and again and again and he wants nothing more than to get lost in every scratch of her nails over his scalp, every breath, every shudder, every  _Eren_.

She's starting to lose it, so he revels in her vulnerability by pressing one, then two fingers inside her, his tongue lapping at her sensitive nub and she cries out, her damp heat scorching him as his thoughts scramble in his brain, movements led by instinct rather than thought and he rasps his tongue on her clit harshly before sucking and curling and he knows she's tip-toeing on the very edge, tipping, tipping, tipping until finally she falls.

A gasp snaps his name in half and he makes sure to slow down the pace of his fingers to elongate her orgasm, drowning in every cry and shiver until she can't take it anymore. He feels her fingers coiling in his hair, yanking his head up, begging  _that's enough_.

Mikasa doesn't know how she manages to find the strength to hold herself up on her forearms, watching the way his eyes glow as they scrutinize her from between her legs, not once breaking away as she feels his fingers leaving her, sees them venture up into his mouth before he sucks off all that's left of her on them.

Fuck.

She melts onto the bed, sweating, her hair sticking to her face and the mattress dips around her flaccid frame as he crawls over her, pecking hip bone, naval, breast, collarbone, neck on the way up until finally he plants a loving buss on her temple. Her eyes are closed, so her senses are keenly aware of his breath, all hot and alive on her skin, rough fingers swiping strands out of her face until she's coaxed to peel her lids open and look at him.

His eyes.

They're mesmerizing.

Beacons of light that shine right through into her soul, every ounce of her ignited by his fire and she doesn't even realize that she's whispering to him, telling him she wants him, pulling a grin out of him before she's smiling too, happiness mixing with excitement and fusing when their joyous mouths combine into one poignant, bruising kiss.

It's so gentle, so safe, the way he holds her face in his hand while he kisses her, swiping his thumb over her clammy cheek as their tongues meet and she tastes herself. All notion of time escapes so that she no longer knows the spatial distance between this second and that, only that one moment she had been feeling his thumb caress her face and then the next, she found herself moaning into his mouth as slipped himself inside her.

It's so easy, so loving, the way he starts to move. Slowly, slowly, he rocks back and forth on top of her, onyx eyes never leaving his face, marveling at the sight of his lips parting with his breaths, of his eyes closing, of his brows furrowing in concentration and he's getting lost in her, she's getting lost in him, he's hard and thick and plentiful and she's filled up in every way, every crevice and crack of her skin and soul and body filled up and overflowing with Eren. It feels so good, she has to close her eyes and revel in it, his breaths mingling with hers and she's so astray, so enthralled, she clings on to everything that's his, wrapping her legs around his waist and whining every time he plunges into her.

Her leg is smooth as porcelain against his callused palm, polished and taut and perfect and he grabs a hold of her ass cheek, lifting it off the bed by grabbing her thigh and pulling her leg up higher, feeling himself go deeper as she tightens and keens and tries to refrain from screaming—he loves that.

She's so beautiful when she bites down on her hand, but he pulls it away from her mouth and pins it to the bed beside her head, forcing her cries out by going faster. His ruts are rougher, pounding into her in a way that makes her gasp, that makes him groan, that appropriates them of their defenses and makes them equal.

Her arms are bent around her head again, unsure of what to do until he notices the dire shift in her expression, the collapsing walls around his shaft and he slinks a hand down past her stomach to rub her clit, plowing into her rapidly and rubbing furiously until she arches and sees stars.

An intense flash of white noise swallows everything and she's coming before she even knows it, bucking her hips once before something hot rips out of her throat—a cry maybe? She doesn't process. She doesn't know anything. She screams and shivers and he watches her endure it all, not daring to take his eyes off her until she's trembling beneath him on the bed, whimpering softly, twitching with the resonating shocks that leave her (and him) breathless and appalled.

She's panting so hard that all she feels and hears and knows are her own breaths tumbling out of her lungs before squeezing them, mind barely registering the feeling of his tongue on her sweat-drenched neck, on the flat plane of her chest, on the soft mounds of her breasts. He takes a bud into his mouth and she gasps weakly, overwhelmed, opening her mouth to beg for mercy but her strangled voice defies her, humming in approval and equal exhaustion as he suckles her nipples and she bites her lips and feels every ounce of her flush—even her toes feel like they've just climaxed. (She, of course, will never voice such a humiliating thought aloud.)

She's so exhausted, but months go by where she doesn't even see him, and nights like these are so scarce, so precious, she gnaws desperately at whatever she can get, no matter how exhausted, no matter how spent.

"Eren..." her voice is lost in her throat, but somehow, he finds it. He always finds it.

"Hm?"

He's pulled out of her completely and her body relaxes with the relief—but still she utters, "You didn't finish."

"That's okay."

"No," she says, scratching her nails across his shoulder, "I want you to."

His lips cease their quest around her body. He frowns at her.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"But you—"

"I'll be fine."

Eren's breath is foggy on her skin, a quiet chuckle pressed against her with a kiss. "Oh, Mikasa..."

"I want you to," she insists, despite how incredibly sleepy she is. When his eyes are just as mesmerizing, beacons that still burn into her soul, she knows she means the words she's speaking with all her heart. "Please, Eren. I'll be alright."

She catches the years that have accumulated on him in the single crease between his brows, in the solemn throb of his jawbone as it clenches before his features thaw and he's his youthful self again, the playful Eren only she remembers that looms over her before smiling on his way to kiss her lips. She feels his tip against her entrance, hesitant, so she breathes.

"Inside me."

He kisses her again.

"Okay."

And he knows she's sensitive so he enters her slowly this time, sighing in her heat and he watches the way her eyes flutter shut, how her mouth drifts open and sets a whisper of his name free. Her cheeks are suffused in rich crimson stains and he can't help himself when he kisses every inch of them, loving her so much that he'll never be able understand. He can't fathom what he's ever done to deserve her, but he thanks her with every measured roll of his hips, capturing her breaths, her whimpers, her life within his mouth.

The second round is even slower than the first, and he tries his best not to get reckless, to be very, very gentle and very, very careful because that's what she deserves, all the tenderness, all the patience, all the love. But then there's churning and tightening and declarations of his loss of self-control, noises that raise in pitch and fervor and control them. She's clawing at his skin and clamping her legs around his hips so that he does as she'd instructed, and even though his movements are still unhurried they've increased in intensity and force, driving him closer to his peak, driving her closer to her third.

She opens her eyes, he opens his, their visions flicker and flicker like dying flames until he's grinding his fingers on that spot that makes her weak, watching her fall right apart before hiding his face into her neck, living off of nothing but her skin until the bliss is all too much and it consumes them.

Her arms remain around him even after he's collapsed. His chest expands and contracts again and again along with hers and she thinks she can feel his heart, she's not sure, because her eyes fog over with something indescribable and the last thing she feels is the rapture of loving someone completely, with everything she is, and she drifts away to the flittering beats of his lively soul pressed tight against her, to the fullness of him still inside her, motionless between her legs.


	6. Okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An ask meme on tumblr in which I was requested to write a drabble based on the quote, "Marry me?"
> 
> Rating: K+
> 
> Genre: Fluff. Humor.

They're young, stupid, "hormone-crazed brats" as Levi once called them. So naturally, their words are of little merit in the real adult-world. Yeah, they 're burdened with great responsibilities, such as killing titans and saving lives and reinforcing the survival of the human race but, truly, they're just kids; and so certain things are rebuffed, guffawed at, brushed to the side with a snicker and a chortle. Like, for example, Eren's sudden, unbidden request:

"Marry me?"

Mikasa, of course, scoffs at the question. (And pretends she doesn't feel herself blush.)

She rolls her eyes at him, at the handsome crimson pigment of his cheeks, ruddy with playful embarrassment and, perhaps, a little too much alcohol.

He's drunk, you see.

They both are.

(Another luxury reserved for the adults that they somehow manage to appropriate. They're just kids. They're just hormone-crazed brats. They're just… oh, whatever.)

"Eren," she utters, (correction: slurs), tugging at his hands so that he rises from the ground, to which he has fallen down on a single knee, the other wobbling slightly between them, both his hands clasping one of hers, holding a bit too tightly and something tells her he's using it as a source for balance.

She gives him another tug. "Eren." He doesn't budge. "Come on."

"Mikasa?" Swimming, teal-green orbs slosh around in their sockets, trying to focus on her face but somehow still managing to see right through her to some unknown point above her head.

"Get up," and a third tug nearly pulls her forward and brings her tumbling towards him. He's snickering like a fool. She's trying not to. A night of slugging down some of Pixis's questionable liquids have brought them to this state. She gives an exasperated groan. The stars seem to dance above them in the sky, and yet, she knows, that as pretty as the illusion might seem, none are actually moving.

Eren still holds her hand, kneeling, slurring, hiccuping, burping.

"Mi… M-mi—"

"Mikasa," she finishes for him.

A burp. "Right."  _Oh, Sina._

"Listen to me," she hisses, tucking some disobedient strands of her hair behind her ears, "pe… people are going to"—hiccup—"find us like this."

"SO BE IT!"

"Shh!"

"Shit. Sorry."

"Eren." Tug. "Please." Tug. "Get up."

"I can't." He's still not moving. Mikasa groans again. The world spins a little, and her head feels far too heavy for her neck, like it's ready to fall off her body and roll down the street. The cool summer breeze blows. A purr. Kissing their skins and ruffling her hair and it's refreshing, if only for a moment, to have her hand in both of his, to have the wind swirling around them, to float up to the stars, the moon, the heavens.

Then she snaps back to reality.

And her voice is stern.

"Eren. I'm serious."

"Me too! I'm stuck."

Her eyes nearly bulge out of her face once she realizes the reality of the situation. It seems that he's unable to lift himself off the ground without toppling over like a… well, like a drunk. He's biting his lip and simpering when Mikasa's instinct to help him kick in. She grabs both of his hands… pulling…

A  _huge_  mistake.

Eren's laughter fills the air when her body slumps like a rag doll and he yanks her to him. She comes crashing down upon him, landing heavily on a useless, giggling sack of a teenage boy. She feels the impact of his body hitting the ground through the taut muscles of his chest, and her knees meet the pavement with a painful thump, her addled mind barely processing the pain.

She's going to fucking strangle him.

"Eren!," she whines, wriggling around on the ground above him. He wraps his arms around her, holding her to his chest. "Eren, no!"

"You're so pretty when you're drunk," he murmurs, sniffing her hair.

"You're so dumb." Her chest is flat against his, their bodies lying limp and useless on the dirty street. She half processes her surroundings: his chest bloating and deflating beneath hers, his eyes closing and a smile spreading over his sleepy lips before she turns her face too peer down at him, the ends of her hair tickling his face. Her breath is poignant with whatever spirit she'd consumed a few moments ago when she whispers, "We should get up."

His is too. "I don't wanna."

She puffs out a breath, smoothing her hair out of her face, briefly contemplating all the different defensive moves she can use on him to get his arms off of her and… wait.  _Is he snoring?_

"Eren."

"Ha?"

"Don't fall asleep."

"Hmrph."

She flicks him on the nose. He crinkles it, frowning, holding her so tight she lets out an involuntary grunt.

"You're squeezing me!"

"Mmm." He smiles, the smug little shit. If it wasn't because everything's a little blurry, and a little funny, and a little bit… odd in the greatest way, she'd have a major problem with what's taking place right now.

But she doesn't.

Her persistence goes flaccid, losing to the hazy features of his striking face. "Come on, Eren. We're on the side of the street."

He's not letting her go, so she sighs, capitulating, laying her head down by his head, hearing him sputter and choke on a few locks of her hair. She laughs a breath or two, forehead pressed to the grimy pavement below them. She doesn't even want to think of what they might look like right now, glued together on the ground like this, laying on the street in the wee hours of the evening. It's a good thing there's no one outside. It's a good thing… It's a good…

"Mikasa."

"Mmm?"

The stars are still dancing, only now from within the darkness of her closed eyes. His whisper is so soft, it takes her a moment to soak it up completely.

"Marry me."

She tilts her head, speaking to his neck. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"B'cos I wan' you to."

"We're hardly old enough to get m-m…. married, silly."

"Then promise me you will. Someday. In the future. Marry me and no one else." She sighs, and her breath must've hit him a weird way or something because he shudders—she feels the vibrations all over his body, seeping through to her own. She frowns at him through the darkness before opening her eyes, seeing that his are still closed, that his mouth still wears that sleepy, adorable smile.

He cracks an eye open to peek at her.

"Is that a yes?"

"No." Her body feels as if every ounce of alcohol inside it pins her down to Eren, ailing any movement. Sluggishly, she replies, practically slurring against his cheek, "You'll have to try harder."

"How?"

"I want a speech."

"Mikasa Ackerman…"

He doesn't see the way she smiles. "Yes?"

"Would you marry me?"

"Speech."

"Oh. Right. Okay. Let me start over." He clears his throat, and his hands—somehow—have begun a journey up and down her back, moving in soothing waves, in careful circles. "Mikasa Ackerman," he whispers. Her heart stops. "I love you and you're beautiful and I could spend the rest of my life looking at your butt—"

"Ugh."

"—and man is not a man unless he has a cow—"

"Did you just call me a cow?!"

"Shh! I'm quoting a passage!"

"From where?"

"From… uh…"

She, somehow, braces herself on two arms, gazing down at him and his ridiculous smirk. Her hair spills around his head, covering him like a curtain. "You're such a child, Eren."

"You love me."

"Not if you're calling m-me"—hiccup—"a cow."

He burps.

"Marry me."

"You just burped in my face."

"Mikasa," but the way he runs his fingers through her hair, the way he cups her cheek, the way he presses the pad of his thumb to the point of her chin, the way he asks, "Marry me?", all elicit her full surrender.

"Okay."

But they're just kids. A bunch of hormone-crazed brats, as Levi once called them.


	7. Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the dirtiest thing I have written in my entire life. And I wrote it all in one sitting. Don't look at me.
> 
> Rating: M 
> 
> Genre: Smut

It's funny. ****

Mikasa tries not to giggle while she works on fastening the scarf around his wrist and tying a knot to bind him to the bed frame. How she managed to get his other wrist tied up is beyond her, because now her mind grapples desperately for any sliver of concentration but the fact that she's _tying Eren to the bed_ is just so fucking ludicrous, she can't cope.

She's biting down on her bottom lip to contain the tiny simpers that tickle in her mouth, that itch to come out, that flare up and turn to a gasp when she feels his teeth suddenly sink into her left nipple. The red-cheeked boy traps the bud and pulls it into his mouth, lips stretching to a half-grin when she hisses, smacking him atop the head to get him to free her.

“Stop it.”

He just laughs.

“Ouch! Eren— I can't focus if you're—”

“What's taking you so long?” he whispers, because, believe it or not, there's people sleeping just a room away. They need to be quiet. Every tiny noise can slip through the thin walls that separate them from the rest of the world and awake the ears that sleep around them. Every squeak and creak of the bed springs beneath their naked bodies is enough to make them both cringe. Or, well, make  _her_ cringe. Eren just laughs.

If the noises of the bed don't wake the others, Eren's tipsy laughter sure as hell will.

“I'm trying to focus,” she breathes, looming over him, her arms threatening to go sore if she festers with the scarf a second longer.

“Focus harder.”

Despite herself, Mikasa laughs. A muted, breathy chuckle. “You said  **hard** er.”

Eren frowns. “Pervert.”

“I can't help it,” she shrugs, glancing down at his candle-lit face below her. His hair's a mess, and she suspects that hers is also. His eyes are bright like emeralds, and it may just be because they're both still a bit drunk and woozy and restless, but Mikasa doesn't think he's ever looked more handsome than he does right now.

This is all just too funny.

Whose bright idea was it to use the scarf to bind Eren to the bed, anyway? And why did they both agree to do it? Maybe it's the tinge of alcohol still lingering in their systems, or the high from the hush-hush sex they just had, but here they are, and the gods know how long it's taken her to tie up his wrists, because soon he's gone impatient again, fidgeting beneath her before craning his neck to nip her breast and titter when she curses at him.

Finally, after much effort, he's tied.

She sits back to get a good look of him, and immediately, she has to cover her mouth to choke back a gasp.

“What?” Eren smirks, blowing a strand of hair off his face.

Mikasa cups both her hands over her mouth and shakes her head, but Eren sees the pinkness in her cheeks, the crinkles of her eyes, the way they shimmer and sparkle.

She's laughing at him.

“Ah-ha, okay. Laugh all you want”—she's bloody  _giggling_ now—“but soon it'll be  _you_  who's tied to the bed frame, you hear?”

“I never agreed to that,” Mikasa gasps, her voice so light and pretty Eren has to smile when she leans in so that he can hear her whispering, feel her breath, smell how sweet it is, know how bad he wants to taste her. “We said you go first, but nothing was discussed about me going second.”

“Oh,” he groans softly, peering down at her when she folds her arms over his chest and rests her chin on them to look up at him, her eyes twinkling innocently. “You are evil.”

“All's fair.”

“For you.”

“And you too,” she pecks his nose, a sudden show of affection that makes his present state seem more loving and less lewd than what it really is. But then Mikasa leans back and sits on his stomach, and he has full view of her now, naked and splendid before him and who the hell gets to say they get to have Mikasa Ackerman like this? That they get to have her  _at all_? Nobody. Just him. He's the luckiest man in the world, and he knows it.

They're just kids, hardly eighteen, and their childishness shows when they both giggle because one's tied to the bed, and the other's trying not to take too much pleasure in the sight before them. (Trying to, and not necessarily succeeding.)

“Make it fair, then,” Eren dares, his voice a raspy murmur, coiling in her ears. Mikasa brushes her hair away from her face, dark eyes glowing with the flickering of the candle near the bed before she leans in real, real close to give his lips the most gossamer of kisses, so fleeting and absent that he is left starving like a madman for more.

“As you wish.”

What a tease.

One second, the room is lit dimly by the candle on their bedside table. The next, Mikasa's lips pucker and a sharp rush of wind blows the flame to a single line of smoke. The moonlight is scarce, and it filters in through the windows like a feeble whisper that only dares to go so far. They're nearly blinded by the sudden darkness of the room, but this only heightens the anticipation, and fills Eren with both excitement and wonder when a glorious purr of his name slurs right against the sensitive skin below his ear, and trickles down the skin of his neck with tiffany kisses that leave him shivering with want.

His hands are already bunching into fists, the tight knots around his wrists whining in restraint when he fights to keep steady below her, but she keeps slinking lower and lower and lower and her lips never leave him, not even once.

By the time she's kissing his thighs, deliberately avoiding where he wants her most, Eren's hot with impatience and edging the line to becoming miserable. He's about to complain, to part his lips and protest but all his words are stolen when she glides her tongue up the underside of his shaft, following his length up to the very tip, where her soft lips curl around his girth and take him in as far as she can take him.

Eren doesn't know whether to gasp or moan or curse, so he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and prays that the groan burgeoning deep within his throat isn't as loud as he feels it is. His brows furrow and his head falls back and his skull thumps the head board behind him but he's so damn lost in the way her tongue draws circles on his tip, how her head bobs up and down in a steady rhythm, how the moist heat of her mouth sucks him in when her cheeks hollow and he disappears into her lips again.

“Ohhhhhhhh,  _shit_.” He's trying so hard not to buck his hips so that she takes him deeper. “Shit.” His knuckles bleed white from how hard his hands are clenching. “ _Fuck_.” The ends of her hair titillate his skin and he wants so desperately to run his fingers through it, to bunch the raven locks in his fist, to set the pace, to do it for her. “Shit, f-fuck.” But she's the one in charge. She's the one who tied the scarf around his wrists so tight he can't break free. She's the one who digs her nails into his skin and runs them down along his abdomen and makes him hiss before sneaking a hand down below her chin to knead his balls lightly. “ _ **Fuck**_ _,_ ” she makes him groan, and it's all her, all her, she's got him crazy.

Time sparrows by and even the hairs on his arms ache. His fingers burn. His muscles toil. He needs to touch her. He  _needs_  to. He's gonna go mad.

Eren's right there, wobbling on one foot, about to tip over the precipice, but Mikasa catches him before he falls, pulling her lips off of him with an audible pop before swallowing tidily—all of the precome he'd leaked gone.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Mikasa snakes herself on top on him, teasing his hardness with her stomach so that he forgets even his own name. He curses again, and she smiles, all mix-like and pretty before kissing his lips and leaning back to straddle his hips.

Without a warning, she lowers herself onto him, and Eren's so fucking helpless; he bites his lip a second too late and a keen of her name escapes.

“Shhhh,” she shushes, a lithe index finger pressed to her lips. And he'll be damned if she isn't the most gorgeous creature he's ever seen. He'll never forgive himself if he doesn't make her pay for what she's doing to him. Her svelte torso rises and falls slowly, so slowly, and there is barely any light but he still sees the way her lips part, how her eyes flutter and wince, how her hands land on his stomach and she rides him through the sting.

It hurts. It hurts to be on top as he stretches her, but Mikasa's quick to conceal her grimace as to not worry him, scrunching her eyes shut and tilting her head back to work through the burn. Soon, pain transforms into pleasure, and the discomfort ebbs away. Then it's just him filling her, completing her, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her veins.

Mikasa's moans are low and raspy, thin enough to disperse but thick enough to linger. They dance in his ears like music, her voice mixed with his breaths and the scarf that ties him to the bed also ties him to her. He's hers. Fuck, he's hers. And he watches in awe and admiration as she loses herself more and more. Her hands leave him to make up for the absence of his touch, skimming over the curves of her waist, across her stomach, up the side of her neck and into her hair while the other ventures down to play with a nipple and then to touch herself between her legs.

She's so fucking beautiful.

Eren doesn't dare move.

Soon, she's utterly lost, and he's right there with her. The bed creaks as she goes faster and harder and leans back to shift the angle so that he hits that spot that makes her scream. Her hands are behind her on his thighs, and what he wouldn't give to hold her right now, to buck up and meet her, to take her through her orgasm and help her ride him through his. He's miserable with need. He's dying to touch her, to clutch her thighs, dent his fingers into her hipbones, cup her breasts and roll his thumbs over her perked nipples and feel the warm mounds bounce with every roll of her hips. But he's so damn stuck, glued to where he is, trying desperately to keep his eyes open but they flicker like the candle that'd been lit moments before, going out just as quickly.

And then it happens.

Her legs shake and Mikasa shudders, tossing her head back with an absent cry, gasps taking its place and filling her throat with a strangled mess of his name. He holds out until she's nearly done, but the task is practically impossible. Tied up, he's got nothing to hold on to, nothing to sink his nails into, nothing to grab with his hands. He falls, right along with her, splintering beneath her on the bed. It feels so good to come inside her, to have her moaning when he does, to discover that none of this can be blamed on whims or even alcohol because it's pure, raw, simple  _them_.

She collapses on his chest, panting and dripping sweat and Eren's voice is lost when he mouths for her to free him. Because  _gods_ , he needs to feel her now, he has to. He has to have her relaxing against him, recovering from her bliss, smoothing her sweat-soaked hair away from her face, from her marvelous features. He has to have her now. He  _has_  to.

After a few moments, Mikasa regains a sliver of her strength, just enough to reach up and undo the knots that tie him to the bed frame and peel the scarf off of his wrists.

Eren groans with relief once his hands are free, and she sits back on his stomach, wrapping the scarf around her neck and smiling when he sighs contently, says that she looks beautiful—and they're both sweaty and messy but none of them care.

“You think the others heard us?” she asks him. Eren doesn't stop smiling. He can't.

“I don't care.”

“But we'll have to—”

She's spiraling mid-air before she can even think to finish.

In an instant, she's beneath him, Eren's smiling eyes shining down on her mischievously like two little suns. “What are you doing?” she asks him, frowning at the way he tears her barren of the scarf.

“Well,” he grins, and her hands and locked above her head in the swift intake of a single breath. “Now, it's your turn.”


	8. Snowflakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I'm always a slut for fluffy Titan!Eren and Mikasa interaction ;3” —anonymous
> 
> A/N: This was inspired by the ice skating scene in the 2005 movie King Kong. I may or may not have teared up a little.
> 
> Rating: K+
> 
> Genre: Fluff

 

It was snowing.

The air was crisp and ripe with the winter season, frigid sighs nipping at the exposed skin of Mikasa's face, dyeing her cheeks and nose a shade of pink Eren discovered to be his new favorite color. Her gloved fingers splayed open to ward her from a barrage of flying snow, sent flying her way from one of Eren's gigantic feet. Her giggles filled every snowflake in the air, warming the edges of his enormous body so that he felt none of the cold around him, only her presence, only her.

Titans never smiled, frozen features stuck in the dumb expressions they were given the moment they became monsters, but Eren's titan form gleamed. In this state, he couldn't feel the snow as acutely as he could in his human body, but his dulled senses registered the brilliant bursts of happiness that radiated off of Mikasa's puny grins—and she looked so tiny, so damn cute, sprinting this way and that like an ant to get away from his pseudo attacks.

“Oh!” she squealed when a solid chunk of snow pelted her right above her ass, arching back and bending back an arm to rub the area. “That hurt!”

Eren's colossal eyes crinkled as he laughed. It was then that Mikasa realized titans were capable of laughter.

It was amazing.

Her cheeks were numb from the cold and from smiling. Peering up at him, she adjusted the furry hat on her head, pulling it down so that the ear flaps covered the sides of her head more. A low grumble punctured the cool, dry air. Eren kept on laughing.

“You think that's funny, huh?” she couldn't help a giggle of her own. “Don't forget you have to leave that titan body of yours eventually. I'll get you then!”

And who knew titans could groan? She gasped when she saw the way Eren rolled his gigantic eyes at her and a heavy whine erupting from his massive throat. The earth stirred for a moment as he made his way towards her, each footstep causing the ground below them to quake with each great thump, the snow bearing his large, titan footprints.

“What?” she asked him when he bent down on one knee, laughing incredulously at the sight before her. Through the years, Eren became more and more adept at managing his titan form. He could control it like a person, conscious of every breath, every motion, every impulse. The beast's gigantic body was merely an extension of his own. So much so that Eren felt all of his human emotions radiating through his second body, tingling the fibers of his giant limbs. He was bigger, and thus had more space for his emotions, more room to feel all of what he already felt so ardently before.

Oh, how much he loved the sight of her.

How she looked with snowflakes in her hair, coating her clothes and skin. He was too big to see for himself, but he imagined the tiny flakes that clung to her eyelashes, counted them all in his head.

They were supposed to be working. Mikasa was assigned to watch over him and study his behavior in the cold, particularly on this extra-snowy evening, but one thing led to another and there they were, both covered in snow and playing and laughing.

Titans don't have lungs. Still, Eren felt just as breathless.

Her little body made its way to his outstretched hand, where she curled her tiny hands around the pad of his index finger.

“What's this?” Mikasa asked him, lifting a foot to climb onto his open palm. His hand became the warm, snowless ground she stood upon—and she'd been grasped by titans so many times before, felt their merciless hands squeeze around her mortal bones. Her flesh and skin bore the permanent scars countless of them had left on her, her body a symbol of the ruthless animals they are. And still, Mikasa was all smiles and giggles when Eren coiled his giant fingers around her and brought her up to his face.

“What?” she laughed again, her breath puffing out of her as steam. “What's that look for?”

She thumped his giant nose with her fist, and Eren would've crinkled it, but a titan's face doesn't work in the same way a human's does. An elated snort was all he could give her. Mikasa took the hint.

“We can't, Eren,” she uttered sadly. “We'll get in trouble.”

But his bright green eyes went all soft and pleading. It was amazing the way they conveyed human emotion that way.

She'd seen them express agony, rage, savage hunger. But that day, they radiated love and warmth and peace. Mikasa smiled at the way snowflakes settled on the arches of his hairless eyebrows.

“Okay, fine,” she surrendered, and he snorted so happily that he nearly blew the hat off of her head. Enveloped by his hand, Mikasa felt a lot warmer. She smiled, and couldn't recall the last time she'd ever felt this content.

Rising to his feet, Eren carried her to a nearby lake. She never looked away from his enormous face, wallowing in the large huffs of his breathing, closing her eyes eventually so that it was all she could focus on at all.

He made a noise to indicate when they arrived to their destination, so that she would open her eyes and look around. The lake was frozen, sunlight pouring over it and causing its icy surface to glow. The day was coming to an end, the sun disappearing behind the orange bellies of thin clouds. The frozen water seemed to be on fire. Funny, since it was literally meters upon meters of ice, and the last thing anyone could hope to witness on a winter sunset is any sort of real flame. Yet she saw some flickering in Eren's features when she turned her head to face him. He glowed, just like the lake, but for a completely different reason.

Amazing, really, how the gentle titan managed to wear a very human, mischievous expression.

“No,” she chided immediately, reading his thoughts. “We can't, Eren. The ice could break.”

He snorted like an angry cow. Mikasa folded her arms over her chest and frowned at him.

“I know that we did it once,” she replied to him, “but that one winter was different. We don't know how frozen this water is right now. Do you want us to die?”

Angry cow snort again.

“No,” and she slapped his giant hand with her own tiny ones. It felt funny, since she was so small. Her gloved slaps felt more like kisses, the way snow felt on his human skin. “Captain Levi would murder us. We can't.”

 _Since when do you care what he says?_ His eyes seemed to ask her. Mikasa rolled her own.

“No means no, Eren. N-O. No. I'm not going to have us—“

The shifter broke into a sprint.

Suddenly, they were sliding. Mikasa burst into a bout of screaming. From both excitement and fright, she wailed. Eren, had he been in his human form, would've peed himself laughing.

Amazingly, the ice below them did not even crack when Eren slipped and fell on his ass. Mikasa hoped that it hurt him, glaring at him as they slid in circles on the lake.

“Damn it, Eren,” she groaned, adjusting her hat on her head again. “You never listen.”

 _Well, we aren't dead, are we?_ He seemed to ask. Mikasa huffed exasperatedly.

She thumped his nose again. “That's for not listening to me,” and she thumped it once more, just to make a point.

For a few moments, Eren rolled around on his butt, spinning in circles while Mikasa squealed and eventually started laughing. The world spun round and round and round, all of it blurring into the background so that all she saw and felt were his gigantic eyes on her, and the smile that soon became painful for her frigid face to bear.

He was careful, amazingly enough, so that they didn't slide too far and crash into a tree. Not that it would hurt him, but in this form, Mikasa was the small and frail one, the one that needed to be protected, and thus he did his very best.

As they spun and slid, snow exploded all around them. He was in awe of the way the snowflakes seemed to shimmer on her clothes and hair and skin. In awe because he was a monster, and yet he admired it all.

When he was wobbling from exhaustion, Eren laid on his back on the snowy ground and placed her gently on his chest so they both could rest. His broad chest was an island to her, bloating and heaving, pushing her up and down as if on a ride. Despite herself, Mikasa smiled and crawled up to rest her body on his chin, reaching out to touch some of his exposed bottom teeth.

“I'll make you pay for this,” she whispered. How he even heard her was a wonder, but he did. And Mikasa knew that if he could, Eren would have smiled.

His large lids slid over his eyes, and soon his iridescent irises vanished under a veil of darkness. He seemed to fall asleep. Mikasa let him.

 

* * *

 

When she wakes, there's a terrible snoring beside her.

For a moment, Mikasa worries that Eren is choking in his sleep. She rolls over on the mattress, making out the curves of his body under the bed sheets in the dark. She reaches out until she's touching his lips, feeling his breathing on her fingertips.

He's okay. He's just being especially loud tonight. Eren must've been exhausted today. He only ever snores when he's absolutely _beat._

Mikasa shimmies herself closer to him, until she's able to steal one of his arms and slink it over herself so that he holds her. For a moment, the snoring stops, but a second later it starts all over. Most women would be irritated by their husband's loud snoring. Mikasa smiles in peace.

Closing her eyes, she runs her fingers up and down the length of his upper arm, feeling the scars on his skin, the ridges of old wounds that consumed parts of his flesh in the war. Eren can't heal the way he used to anymore. The years have made him weaker, his powers eventually waning so that they granted little strength. Eventually, his shifter abilities began to eat away at him, reversing their effect so that they did more harm than good, so that Mikasa had to fear losing him to his own self. Those years had been a total nightmare.

But now those years are gone.

She feels his warmth, allows it to envelope her, the way his large, titan hands had once held her during the respite of their daily lives. Before drifting off to sleep, she counts each and every single one of his snores, until they are pouring over her subconsciousness like snowflakes on a chilly winter day. Melting, they vanish as she slips into a deep slumber, grateful for the incessant noise coming from the man sleeping beside her, to whom she has given her entire life.

The last thing her fingers touch is the golden band around his wedding finger, which he never takes off, not even to sleep. Briefly, she remembers how large his fingers once had been, how it was these very hands that plugged the hole in Wall Maria, that broke under the weight of all humanity, that could've torn him apart when he nearly drove himself insane had it not been for her saving him. These are the same hands that built their new home and framed the swollen curve of her belly, and eventually curled around the fragile body of their newborn baby girl, feeling her life wriggling on his palms. His life. Theirs.

And she counts her blessings, counts his snores, counts the beauties life secretly harbors. They pile up, like the snowflakes on their window sill.

 


	9. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "After Mikasa falls asleep on Eren, he takes her to bed, which leads to early morning smut" —anonymous
> 
> Genre: M
> 
> Rating: Fluff. Smut (nothing too terrible but...)

 

Mikasa Ackerman would not—and this means never—admit that when she's really, really,  _really_  tired, she snores.

The soft whistle of her inhales, followed by the gossamer, fluttering grumble of every exhale indicates that she has fallen asleep—on his chest, no less, where a drop of saliva has dribbled out of her parted, sleepy lips and onto him.

Her hair's fanned all over her face, so Eren brushes it all back and tucks it behind her ear, snorting when he peers down to see half of her face squished against him, the other half resting in all its gorgeous, angelical splendor and honestly, there's nothing prettier than her, than this, than her tiny snores.

He brings a fingertip up to her eyelashes, feeling the small hairs brush his skin, and he thinks for a moment that he can count them, see just how many accumulate to make them look so fringed and dense, but they're far too many, so he gives up before he's even begun.

A lock of hair falls over her face again. Stubborn, Eren pulls it back away from her forehead, securing it over her head before running his hand down the gentle slope of her spine, the muscled, defined curve of her arm, the delicate, thin shape of her fingers and nails—bringing her hand up to his lips and pressing kisses to the tip of each one, he counts those, at least.

Suddenly, her chest stutters. She gives a loud, rumbling snore.

Eren laughs.

Any other guy would've found the sight irritating, or amusing, but Eren just found it straight up adorable. He didn't want to move, just let her lay like that on his chest and hold her like this forever. But soon, his arm went sore, and his back ached due to the odd angle he was lying in on the sofa, and Mikasa—another thing she would  _never_ admit—weighed, frankly, a lot.

Gently, he scoots and shuffles until he's in a sitting position and he can slink himself out from underneath her. It's not an easy task. He hesitates a couple of times for fear of waking her, but eventually, he's able to stand on his feet and scoop her up into his arms.

He carries her like a baby—and she gurgles and mumbles like one too, which, okay, is way too fucking cute. Who would've thought this tank of a woman did all of these things in her sleep? She'd die if Eren ever told her, so he marvels at the sight only he ever gets to see.

The snoring ceases for a moment when he lays her down on the bed and carefully rids her of her clothing. Mikasa stirs, complaining in a drowsy, indistinct language Eren can't understand as he gently peels her shirt off. He takes off her shoes, her socks, undoes her belt and her bra and throws those aside to be cleaned up later. It's when he's trying to relieve her of her jeans that she mumbles, “No, Eren. I'm tired. Not tonight.”

He rolls his eyes. She keeps stirring, stretching her arms over her head and letting out a long, weary groan. Despite her whines, she raises her hips to help him shimmy her pants down her legs, smirking sleepily when she's left in nothing but her panties.

“You shouldn't take advantage of people when they're… mmrph-murp-blehhh.”

“Miks,” he drones, searching through the drawers for one of his shirts while she yawns and turns over on her stomach. “Go back to sleep.”

She's talking in tongues again. Gurgling. And when he straightens up with one of his T-shirts in hand, he can't help but wallow in her sleeping figure on the bed before him. Uncovered by the sheets, her bare back billows and sinks with each of her breaths, and the dip of her spine has never looked so marvelous; the outlines of her body bathed in the dim, yellow glow of the lamp by their bed and she'd smack him if she saw the way he's staring at the glorious curve of her ass, at how her panties dig into her butt cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, tapping the back of her shoulder. “You need to turn over. I gotta put this shirt on you.”

She doesn't listen, so Eren flips her over and pulls her up so that she's sitting on the bed. Her hair's a mess, and the sudden shifts and movements have roused her from her slumber, woken her up enough so that she can keep herself upright on the bed with only minor swaying.

Eren is all patience and encouragements as he slips his shirt over her head, smoothing her hair out of her face and pecking her nose before asking her to lift her arms through the sleeves. He kisses her again when she does as he says, and there's a mess of her clothes on the floor but he's too lazy to pick them up and Mikasa is far too tired to notice.

Suddenly, he's overtaken with how warm and welcoming she looks splayed back down on the mattress, wriggling around so that she can pull the bed sheets over herself. He turns off the lamp on the bedside table and shimmies out of his pants before diving onto the bed to join her.

Pulling her body close to his, he dwells on her breaths, on her heat, on her hair tickling his neck and her hand on hist bare chest and how comfy and beautiful and right she feels beside him until she isn't the only one who's snoring anymore.

 

* * *

 

“Wake up.”

Her whispers titillate the skin below his ear, and Eren stirs a little, smirking when he registers her weight on top of him, the feeling of her naked body inside his shirt.

“Eren,” she breathes, tickling his earlobe with her lips, “wake up.”

Eren hums to acknowledge her, rubbing her back with a heavy hand.

“It's morning,” she whispers, as if the sun light penetrating the windows and violating his blooming eyes wasn't obvious enough. “I'm hungry.”

“Hungry?” he murmurs drowsily, turning his head to face her. He cracks a hazy eye open and smiles groggily when she nods.

“Mhm.” Mikasa runs a finger down his nose. “So wakey-wakey.”

Eren snorts. Since when does she even talk like that?

“Five more minutes,” he dares. She sits up on his stomach, slapping a hand on his chest—he captures it with his own, opening his eyes to watch her shake her head and tell him “no”. She's so stubborn. He throws an arm over his eyes and gives her hand a squeeze. “Please, Mik. Your snoring kept me up all night.”

“What?” she gasps, pulling her hand out of his grip. “I don't snore.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Never.”

“Alright,” Eren shrugs, his arm still bent over his eyes. “Whatever.”

Her touch is light when she lifts his arm off his face, ushering his gaze down to her mussed, tousled hair and bright features. Her face is far less tired than his, but her eyes still give off a hint of sleepiness with every slow blink. It's when she links their fingers together and places his hands on her thighs that he really feels himself awaken.

“I'm wearing your shirt,” she croons, running a finger down the center of his chest. “Care to explain that?”

“I know how much you hate sleeping in your jeans so…” his words disappear into the air once his hands skim up the sides of her legs and he sees her lashes flutter. She tries to play it off, shrugging indifferently when he rubs circles on her hipbones with his thumbs, but he knows her, and he knows that the calm expression on her face is all for show.

“I think I know what I want,” she begins, running a hand through her messy hair and sighing when his hands start working their way upwards. He's surprised she's even letting him touch her like this first thing in the morning, considering how his hands have snuck under his shirt to feel the taut muscles of her abdomen—but she feels so warm to the touch, so strong yet soft and fragile, and he's not sure whether his hands are just too callused or her skin is just too smooth, but the opposites combine when his fingers graze the curves of her waist and she shudders.

“For me to touch you…” his digits stroll down her belly, whence he holds a finger to her crotch, “here?”

“No,” she chides him, but doesn't bother to remove his hand. “I mean for breakfast.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want?”

Mikasa wears her thinking face and taps a finger on her chin, furrowing her thin brows comically. She's feigning ignorance to his roaming hands, but Eren sees the way she bites her lip when his hands grope her ass, how her nipples harden and raise under the fabric of his T-shirt and he wants so bad to—

“Omelets.”

He frowns. “Omelets?”

“Yep!” and she goes to hop off him, but Eren holds her in place.

“Where do you think you're going?” he asks her, his voice dark with sleep and something mischievous.

“To make breakfast,” she explains, but Eren shakes his head.

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“You can't yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he bucks his hips to rub their clothed sexes together, and despite herself, Mikasa gasps. “I think I know what I want too.”

“And what would that be?” she pants, rocking her own hips in response to heighten the friction. Eren smiles.

Next thing she knows, she's spinning in the air and her back meets the mattress. The early morning light makes Eren's eyes look even brighter when he looms over her and replies, “You.”

She doesn't bother to roll her eyes or even scoff at him. If anything, Mikasa is just as enthusiastic when he slinks down to kiss the insides of her thighs and she breathes out a moan. Her hands scurry to throw the bed sheets off of him, so that she can see just what he's doing when he hooks his fingers on the flimsy fabric of her panties and starts to slip them down her legs, discarding them to the side like a piece of garbage.

The muscles on his shoulders flex as he leans over to kiss his way down her thighs, starting all the way up from her knees, and although she goes so far as to spread her legs for him, she still protests feebly with, “Eren,” yet he won't stop, “breakfast.”

He doesn't really ignore her, but he doesn't acknowledge anything she's saying either, offering nothing but a low, fleeting hum. It's when he's lapping at a bruise he's sucked onto her skin that she gasps for him to listen to her, and he responds by looking up.

“What's that?” he asks her, pressing kisses to the skin below her naval.

“We should stop.”

“Why?”

“I want…”

“Hmm?”

“Breakfast,” she says weakly. She doesn't realize she's closed her eyes.

“I'm already having mine.”

“Oh, you're such a—”

But he dips before she can finish her sentence. She's still wearing his shirt, and Eren imagines the curves her body makes when she squirms and arcs once he tastes her. He can't help but groan into her when she responds, relishing in the noises she makes when she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls lightly. He hoists her thighs over his shoulders, and lets her hips arch in ways that allow him to delve deeper, to go faster, until the soft noises of her gasps and whimpers become so much more.

Mikasa Ackerman would not—and this means never—admit that when she's really, really,  _really_  turned on, she tends to be loud.

Eren aims to make the neighbors hear her.


	10. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is my first time participating in a ship week and I realize I've never written a fic with baby eremika in it so basically, shame on me. My installation to day 4 of Eremika AU Week: Family
> 
> Rating: T
> 
> Genre: Family

 

“Daddy.” ****

“Yes, baby?”

“Where do babies come from?”

Eren Jaeger is used to facing a lot of things in life: titans, gore, blood, violence—death, even. But nothing could prepare him for the question his daughter asks him that morning, a question that stalls his breathing and makes alarms go off in his head.

Panic.

What the hell is he supposed to say?

His eyes flicker to Mikasa, who's quick to return her gaze to the freshly-washed vegetables she's chopping up for breakfast. Where his eyes scream terror, hers twinkle with delight. She's enjoying this. The smile that strains her rosy lips proves it.

Eren drops his gaze back to his child, raising a brow at the genuine curiosity that beams in her small, inky eyes. She's a reflection of her mother, a replica in every sense. The only facets of her that resemble him are the tiny dimples on her cheeks, and her stubbornness.

There's no way she's letting this question go unanswered. No way at all.

“Well, that, my love,” he croons, tapping her nose with the tip of his finger, “is a  _very_  good question! Why don't we ask your mother?”

Perfect.

The burden is no longer his.

Their daughter whips her head around to face Mikasa (who's quick to fix Eren in a glare, to which he responds to with a wink of an eye) so quickly that her pigtails bounce back and forth of either side of her head.

“Mommy?” the four-year-old implores. Mikasa offers her her warmest smile.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Where do babies come from?”

“Uh…” and she'll be damned. Mikasa remembers asking her own parents that question. She remembers even asking Dr. Jaeger once. But what were their answers? To her adult mind, they seem like a blur. So much time has passed—too much.

“Well, you see…” Mikasa begins, clearing her throat and setting down the knife in her hand by the cutting board. “When a mommy and a daddy really love each other, and they both feel that they're ready to start a family, the daddy puts a baby inside the mommy's belly, which then takes nine months to grow and comes out of the mommy and into the world.”

Eren nods his approval, and their daughter's tiny lips part in a soft gasp. She seems to love the idea, accepting it with grin that dents the two small holes on her cheeks. At that moment, she's all Eren's.

The parents sag with relief, resuming their previous employments. Mikasa cuts up more vegetables, Eren keeps polishing the wood of the new dining table he's just built. Their daughter lingers where she stands, quiet.

She seems to think. Silence is dense in the air around them, pierced by the sharp thumps of the cutting board meeting the knife, the crunch of the vegetables being sliced to pieces. The silence grows even denser until—

“But…”  _Oh, please no._ “How does it come out?”  _Damn it._

“Good question!” Mikasa chirps. “Ask your father.”

Eren visibly cringes under the weight of his daughter's gaze.

“Daddy, how does a baby come out?”

“But your mom is the one who brought you into the world,” he retaliates. Mikasa aims the knife at him. Eren grins. “It's only fair that we let her answer that question.”

“Mommy.” Pigtails bounce. Inky eyes land on her. Mikasa lowers the knife she had been aiming at her husband, who's clearly enjoying all this with the way he chews on his bottom lip to stifle back a laugh.

“Well, uh…” she swallows, running a hand through her raven hair, searching for the proper words. Ignoring Eren's glinting eyes, she stares intently at her daughter, who waits patiently for her response.

“You see, honey,” she sighs finally, “the mommy delivers the baby naturally through her body in a way that you're far too young to understand and—”

“Sometimes babies get cut out of the mommy, too.”

“Eren.”

“What?”

“You mean they cut the mommy open?!” Her expression is utter tragedy. Eren pats his daughter on the top of her head.

“Not exactly, sweetie.”

“Doesn't she bleed?!”

“Oh, yes,” he exaggerates, widening his eyes and leaning close in to spook her. “There's  _blood_. Lots and lots of it.”

She wrinkles her little nose, and Eren can't help it when he leans in closer to kiss it. She's too damn cute.

“I never want a baby.”

“That's my girl.”

“Eren...” Mikasa chides him, her expression going serious.

With a slight roll of his eyes, he sighs. “Okay, listen.” It takes everything in him not to grit the words out through his teeth, reluctantly accepting the fact that someday in the future—in the far,  _far_  future—his daughter may want a family of her own. Meaning that she will be an adult one day. Meaning that she will no longer need to live under his wing. Meaning that Eren can't bear that thought right now and wishes that she'd stay this cute and small forever.

“Someday, when you're old enough,” he tells her, picking her up by her ribs and sitting her on his lap, “a daddy will put a baby in your belly, and you will have a family and you will help your baby grow healthy and strong. And beautiful. Just like you.”

“Or you may not,” Mikasa adds, voice gentle and caring. “You may also choose to never have children. This is fine too.”

“It's all up to you, honey,” Eren smiles, cupping her chin. “You can have your own children, raise someone else's children, have a family with a man, or with a woman—kinda like aunt Ymir and auntie Historia! Remember them?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“So babies come from many places, not all necessarily the same,” he explains, bouncing her up and down on his lap, his eyes going hazy with love at the innocence she stares at him with, absorbing all of his words with childish wonder. “But there is one thing that all babies have in common. You wanna know what that is, baby?”

“What is it, Daddy?”

“Love. Every baby is a gift to the world, and carries a lot of love in it. Having a baby is a beautiful thing.”

Mikasa gives him a smile, and Eren winks at her again.

_Score._

“But Daddy…”

_Fuck._

“Yeah, sunshine?”

“How does the daddy put a baby inside the mommy's belly?”

“Uh…” He shoots a quick glance at Mikasa, who shakes her head as if to say  _don't you even think about it, Eren._ “Magic,” he decides. His daughter gasps, appalled.

“Magic?”

“Yup!”

“Is that how you put a baby inside Mommy's belly?” she squeaks, scrunching her thin brows together in a frown. “With  _magic_?”

Eren scoffs and looks off into the distance. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“So you're a magician?!”

“Of sorts.”

Suddenly, the girl bounces off his lap to stand before him, raising her shirt to expose her round, pallid tummy and flatten a hand over the puny indentation of her belly button. With all the innocence in the world, she asks him, “Can you put a baby in my belly, too?”

“No-ho!” Eren jumps. Mikasa finds it hard not to smile. “No. That's for someone else to do in the future.”

“Someone you love,” the mother says.

“And want to marry,” the father says.

“Oh,” the child breathes, disappointed.

“Yeah. Only big girls get to have babies in their bellies.”

“Big girls like Mommy!” she screams, throwing her arms up in the air and squealing when her father stands to scoop her up into his arms and kiss her pudgy cheeks repeatedly.

“Exactly!” Eren grins, bouncing her weight in his arms to hold her better. “You're so smart.”

“But, Daddy…”

The sigh that leaves his lips is weary, but he lets her curl her fingers around his chin and turn his head her way when he tries to face his wife for consolation, summoning a patience that only comes with being the parent of a child as curious as her.

“What?”

She points a tiny digit to her mother, whose eyes suddenly grow wide.

“Can you put a baby inside Mommy's belly right now?”

“Um—”

“Can I see?”

“Baby—”

“I wanna see the magic!”

“Shit.”

Mikasa's too busy chortling to scold him for cursing out loud.

 


	11. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eren fully admiring mikasa's beauty" —anonymous
> 
> A/N: It kind of came out more as a small listing of things Eren likes about Mikasa, but I hope you like it, nonny!
> 
> Rating: K+
> 
> Genre: Fluff, basically.

 

He likes the soft scent of her hair.

"They stopped inviting me," Mikasa tells him one night, her fingers fiddling with her bangs. "The girls get together at night and talk about all sorts of… girly stuff. But they go quiet as soon as I walk into the room. I don't think they want me there."

"Why?" Eren scoffs, smirking a little. His eyes fall to her left shoulder, which rises in a mild shrug.

"I don't know," she sighs, running a hand through her hair, locks of glossy ink spilling from the spaces between her fingers. "Sasha told me it's because I never say anything, and because when I  _do_  say something, my answers are all the same. So they stopped inviting me, I suppose."

Eren rolls his eyes, snorting. "That's crazy."

Mikasa shrugs a shoulder again. "It's fine."

He likes how long her nails are.

They pop and snap together while she twiddles her thumbs. Mikasa's features have a way of concealing things, but the murky, gray waters of her eyes always reflect what's happening on the inside. There's a slight furrow to her brows, a peculiar curl to her lips, a particular weight to her gaze that pulls it downcast.

"Does it bother you?" Eren asks her. Mikasa traps a fingernail between her teeth, not exactly biting but more like  _pinning_  it there.

He likes the shapes of her lips.

And how soft and pink they are. Sometimes, they look like rose petals, lacquered with a subtle sheen so that they never wither, only flourish, forever in bloom. The passing of time, he's noticed, seems to do the opposite for her than what it does to, well, a flower. Through the years, Mikasa merely blossoms. And Eren knows she's self-conscious, that she's spent hours upon hours scrutinizing her flaws, agonizing over the muscles that have grown too taut and unladylike, the scars that have marred her skin forever. But he likes the shapes of her lips, and how they curve around her fingertip, how they allow a glimpse of her teeth, which still pinch her thumbnail; and he wishes that she knew how pretty these aspects of her are, how they amount to so much more than her insecurities.

"No," she answers flatly, but something tells him it's a lie. Mikasa likes to act like she doesn't care for juvenile things, but she's fifteen, and a girl, and curious and growing. Eren's brows knit together in thought.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Eren," she rolls her eyes.

He likes how long her lashes are.

Because he'd never really noticed before but  _fuck_ , are they impressive. They fan outwards and curve up to the sky. One time, when they were kids, Eren had touched them while she was sleeping. He remembers how the hairs had tickled, how her lids had fluttered in her sleep and how small and cute she was. Now she's bigger, and her lashes are longer, and Eren wonders if they might feel differently, if they'll caress the callused tips of his skin and soothe him in the absence of sleep once more.

He likes how delicate her hands look, but how strong they feel (and are).

And to think that he's seen them curled around the hilt of a knife, plunging into the back of a man and then slashing through the napes of titans' necks years later, eradicating life without so much as the flinch of an eye. Do people ever see her in her glory, zipping through the air in her 3DMG and question her humanity? Do they not see what he does—that she is kind and caring and gentle? Do they see her hair flowing in the wind and see a majestic creature, not a girl, not his Mikasa?

He likes how soft her skin is, how gentle to the touch.

Even her scars. Their ridges and bumps don't bother him, no matter how nasty or coarse. In fact, Eren thinks he likes them. And sometimes, he wonders what they may feel like pressed against his lips. Would the ridges level with the rest of her? Would the coarseness fade? He eyes the scratch on her cheek, the one his titan form created some months ago. Something hollow in his chest aches, something raw. Remorse, maybe. Longing, perhaps. In his mind, he swipes her hair away from her face, pecks the scar he's marked her with and apologizes. Can she feel his kiss?

"What?" Mikasa says, frowning at him. "What's that look for?"

He's frowning too. "What look?"

"You're staring," she croons, words muffled on her finger. "All weird and googly."

Eren scoffs quietly. "Googly's not a word."

"Yes, it is."

"No, Mikasa."

"It is, Eren."

"Alright. Whatever. I don't feel like arguing over a stupid word."

"Likewise."

"Ugh."

He likes her voice.

How it billows from between her lips and leaps out into the air, how it dances to the atmosphere, how it coils in his being. He's heard it wail, and scream, and sob. But he's also heard it laced in a gasp, a laugh, a sigh, a battle cry. He's heard it keen sadly, rejoice happily. At her best, at her worst. He's heard it all. (At least, he thinks he has.)

Mikasa's finger leaves her mouth only to twirl in her hair, fiddling with her bangs again. Crinkling her nose, she breathes, "They can stick it." It takes him a moment to realize she's back to talking about the girls. "If they don't want me around when they're talking, then that's fine. I've got bigger things to worry about."

Eren smiles. She looks at him. She smiles too.

He thinks, however, that he likes her smile more than anything.

The way his heart takes flight when she snickers and punches him lightly on the shoulder concurs. The greatest thing about Mikasa—the thing Eren really,  _really_ likes the most—is her happiness.


	12. Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Eren and Mikasa first time smut" —anonymous
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Genre: Smut, of course.

Eren wonders what she'd be like, had the world not forged her into a weapon, a blade, a war toy. He wonders if her smile would be different. Would her eyes still look the same? What about her posture? She's poised in air; a meticulous aura that radiates off of her constantly. So calculated is her each and every movement, word, and breath. She is the design of perfection, tailored to deliver nothing but. Perfect. Perfect. Always, she must be perfect.

But still.

What if what had raised her had been unconditional love, the faint tickle of flower petals on her fingertips, the stains of grass on her feet and clothes, the wild breezes ruffling her hair and blowing large hats right off her head—would her spirit be more free, then? Would she be more exuberant, her truer self? What about her heart, that rock-solid thing she's toughened on life's anvil? Would it expand to all the souls her dainty charm would touch so effortlessly? Many times, Eren has imagined what she might be like, had he never had to rescue her, had they met the way people do in all those story books Armin's grandpa used to read, uncaged from giant walls and free of the incessant terror of the titans.

And as she sits beside him one evening, the two of them taking shelter from the pounding rain inside a rickety old barn, he finds himself rather clueless, unable to conceive a grander person than the one that is already by his side.

Her eyes are closed, half her face hidden behind the crimson scarf she's recoiled around herself. The air is cool inside the barn, stale with hay and devoid of the stench of animals. There is no noise. Only the rain, the wind, the groaning walls and their slow, solemn breathing. The lantern they were carrying when the sudden downpour had deluged them sits idly by her feet, casting odd figures on the spaces around them with its dancing light. Their folded legs shiver before them. Eren plops back to lay on the ground with a tired groan, his hands locked behind his head.

“I told you it wasn't a good idea to go on a walk,” Mikasa breathes into the silence. “Levi is going to murder us.”

“He'll live,” Eren sighs, closing his eyes.

“Yes, but we won't.”

“Relax.” He can practically sense her stiffening, not needing to look at her to know she's frowning at some point in space.

It's so hard to imagine her being anything but careful, being anything but _this._ A long sigh pours from her mouth and he hears her moving around on the ground by his legs, nudging the side of his thigh with her finger.

“What?” he whispers.

“Nothing.”

Eren cracks one eye open, peeking at her back. In the dim, flickering light, he makes out her subtle shivering.

“Mikasa.”

She doesn't turn to look at him. “Hmm?”

“Come here.”

Now, she does. “What?”

“Come here,” he echoes, beckoning to his side. “You're cold.”

“I'm fine.”

“Liar.”

She smiles. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Mikasa moves slowly, ever so careful to rest her head on his shoulder lightly so that it doesn't go numb. Eren curls an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. Her head rolls to his chest, her hand on his stomach, and he thinks he can feel her heartbeat pounding against his ribcage, feel her life coursing through her as ardently as he feels his own.

They're quiet, for there's simply nothing more to say. They've done this before. In fact, they've done much more. Fingers have entwined, cheeks have boiled scarlet, lips have locked and breaths exchanged and hands roamed to private places but they've never escalated past the point of intoxicated grinding (Armin had knocked on the closet door wherein two semi-drunk teenagers were fumbling on the floor, and that was the end of that).

It's so obvious that they like each other. Everyone nags them for it and asks when they'll become an item. But romance is a luxury in a world such as theirs. Teenagers don't swoon and fall in love, they strap on their gears and go to battle. When each sunrise may as well be their very last, dreaming of foolish, young love is an atrocity.

But she's drawing invisible patterns on his shirt with her index finger, and Eren gawks at her lashes, following the length of her nose to the pointy tip and they've done this before but he can't help falling in love with the simplicity of her figure pressed to his, the joy of having her here with him as if it was the for the very first time. “Do you think it'll stop soon?” she questions, referring to the rain. He doesn't know if it will, but he hopes it doesn't.

“Dunno,” he says, rubbing a hand down her back. “Maybe.”

“When I was little, my mom used to open the back window when it rained, since it let in the cool air and smell of petrichor.”

“You already told me this story.”

“No, I didn't.”

“It's the one about the rabbit who got carried off by the—”

“No, Eren.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so,” she knocks two knuckles on the side of his head, “be quiet and listen.”

Eren smirks, tightening his grip around her and burying his nose in her hair. “I'm listening.”

“So, my mother would open the back window, right? And because the wind hardly ever blew into the house through that window, no rain would ever get in. So, I used to lay my head down flat on the window sill and watch the drops of rain crash against it. Sometimes, the drops exploded with such force that they wet my nose. It tickled. It was fun.”

“That's nice,” he murmurs into the crown of her head, placing a hand on her shoulder and inhaling her scent. Mikasa cranes her neck up to look at him, her dark eyes hazy in the dim light.

“Yes. It was very nice.”

Before he can think to stop himself, Eren lands a peck on the tip of her nose, the very tip that must've turned pink from her rubbing the rain drops off when she was little. And before he can think to open his mouth to say anything more, Mikasa presses her lips on his and appropriates him of his thoughts.

“I'm sorry,” she pants after a stunned moment, her cheeks tinging rosy in her breathless splendor. She pulls away from him but he holds her face before she can get too far. “I'm—” He swallows her words into his mouth, craning his neck up to kiss her long and hard. Normally, he'd be more gentle, but her little noise of surprise and her fingers sliding into his hair spur him on. Their lips roll and brush together, a clumsy dance that attunes to a smooth waltz. And then her back meets the floor, and her hair splays out around her head on the ground and Eren swears she's never looked more beautiful.

“Still cold?” he smirks, rolling on an elbow. Mikasa smiles softly, pushing him down by the back of his neck to bring him, and his heat, closer.

“Not anymore.”

Her legs part to straddle his hips, and he presses himself against her, feeling her arms surround him and her breath hitch when the icy tips of his fingers slip under her shirt and meet the thawing surface of her abdomen. Taut ripples that she's come to hate are soothed by his loving touch, her sigh lost into his lips when his hand finds her breast and squeezes lightly. His eyes slide open to plead, to ask if this is okay, but hers are tightly shut, stolen away from him. Without a word, she guides his hand lower down her torso, until it's slipping down the waistband of her skirt and touching the clothed warmth between her legs.

“Mik—” he heaves, her eyes sliding open at the hint of alarm in his voice. “Are you—?”

“It's okay,” she whispers, peering at him through hooded eyes. “It's alright. I want this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Her neck cranes back sightly when he runs his fingers down the growing line of dampness on her clothes, exposing an alabaster sliver of her neck. Eren bites his lip, fighting the urge to relieve her of her scarf and mark it. He has to remind himself that she deserves nothing but his love, his care, his patience. And yet, there's a fire that smolders in her dark, eternal eyes when she breathes, “I want this,” rocking her hips to grind herself against his hand. There's a certain desperation, a yearning in her that suggests years worth of wanting him, wanting this. In an effort to resume where they've left off, she meets his gaze and husks, “Do you?”

“I do,” he doesn't waste a second before answering her. “I want you.”

“I want you too.”

There's a twinge of sadness in his eyes as he observes her, gauging the way each and every one of her dainty features react to the languid motions of his hand. Her lips, her eyes, her nose, her chin, her hair—that raven lock that's always falling on her forehead. His gaze flickers here and there, absorbing all of her, watching her uncoil the scarf from her neck before undoing the buttons of her own shirt. She pops a button. Two. Three. Then his eyes close and he focuses on her breathing, on his, on rubbing slowly, gently, softly.

Eren doesn't know why he's driven to look away, to give her a pocket of privacy before she bares herself to him. Perhaps it's because he believes that she deserves better, that her first time should be at her wedding night on a bed, wreathed in cotton sheets and feathery pillows and not on the ground of an abandoned, old barn with _him_. Perhaps it's because those monsters he had to save her from all those years ago sought to gain monetary profit from something as priceless as this: her body, her beauty, the subtle incline of her arching spine and the low, imperceptible whimper that strains her lips when his eyes bloom open and catch sight of her denuded torso, and he tugs her panties to the side and his fingers find a place they've met only once before.

He rubs slow circles on her engorged nub and her expression grows pained, her lips parting to let out gasps and a broken, mangled noise that barely resembles his name. Eren loves seeing her this way, loves how fearless she is and willing. But, admittedly, he has no idea what to do. They've never gone a step beyond this point. So he asks her. He peppers kisses from her shoulder to her neck to her jaw to her ear and asks her, “What do you want?”

“Keep rubbing,” she murmurs, fluttering lids falling shut with a sigh. “There. Right there, Eren.”

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” she pants, her chest heaving. “It does, yes.”

His lips trace the ruddy blotches on her cheeks, heat rising to his own and coiling at a low point in his stomach. “What about this?” He watches her expression change to one of surprise as he presses a finger into her. He slides it in two knuckles deep before her brows come together and her features twist in pain. “Does it hurt?” he asks, acutely aware of her nails rasping the nape of his neck, the clothed sweep of his shoulder.

“No,” she whispers, shaking her head. Her features soften and her eyes capture the flickers of the lantern and even the drumbeat of the rain as she smooths his hair off his forehead and whispers again, “No. Keep going.”

Slowly, his finger thrusts in and out. Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth and her thin brows pull together in a frown. Acting upon instinct, Eren dives to taste the skin of her neck, her collarbone, the humble swells of her breasts. The tip of his tongue runs along the circumference of her nipples, tracing one, then the other, and the shudder that tears through her, the heat building in her core, the whine that escapes her pert mouth when he rolls her bud into his mouth and suckles softly, sliding a second finger inside her, all debilitate the conscientious perfection she has mastered for so long.

Suddenly, she's not a soldier, or a warrior, or the highest ranked cadet among the trainees. She's just a woman, a young girl, a flawed, imperfect, writhing creature indulging in the one act of selfishness she has allowed herself in months. Eren takes his time, waiting until her breaths are rushing out with quiet moans, and then he switches to tonguing at her other nipple, scissoring his fingers to stretch her out as much as he can without going mad at the growing ache in his groin. Her nails run along his scalp, fingers tug at his hair, and then he's kissing his way down her body, teasing her clit with his thumb and pressing hard.

Her thighs snap shut around his hand, legs trembling from the sensations he's giving her. He asks if she's okay, she nods yes, and he mumbles for her to raise her hips so he can relieve her of her underwear. The flimsy fabric slides down her pasty legs, and for a moment, it's just the rain and the dancing lantern and their breaths, until he flings her panties to the pile of her discarded shirt and bra and looks at her.

Mikasa's brave, sometimes even braver than him. And this is one of those times when she parts her legs for him, her arms thrown are her head and chest swaying rapidly like the waves of a sea whose depths he can only imagine, only envision from the fascinating tales of Armin's books. Slowly, he runs his hands down her thighs, bunching her long skirt around her hips and waist. There's a tinge of embarrassment in her face, and he makes sure to kiss it all away, to ward it off with faint reminders of how beautiful she is—even when she tells him to stop with an embarrassed flush, and a glorious little giggle.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as he plants kisses on the insides of her thighs, lightning tearing through her body when his tongue meets her core and she gasps, stifles her whine against the backs of her fingers. Tentatively, Eren drags his tongue to get her taste in his mouth, and finds it mildly amusing when she reacts and grips a fist full of his hair. It feels a little weird, what they are doing, but neither of them object, welcoming the new discovery before he remembers where she's most sensitive and flattens his tongue against her clit.

“Eren,” she moans while his head bobs at the cradle of her hips, and his name has never sounded better. “Please.”

His eyes flash up to admire the deep blush on her chest and cheeks, the hardened pebbles of her peaks, the tousled locks of her hair all splayed wildly and distorted. She's a mess. A beautiful, panting, gasping mess. She's never been more perfect than she is right now. Eren sits back on his heels and tugs his shirt over his head, kissing the palm of her hand when he crawls over her and she cradles one side of face.

“I love you,” he utters.

“I love you,” she breathes.

The words dissipate into the fog that hangs low around them, goosebumps rising on their barren skins. She runs her hands down his arms, his fingertips meeting the scar on her cheek. His own body holds no proof of all his battle wounds, whereas hers bears the marks she's been permanently scarred with. It occurs to him that he is a titan, a monster, the very thing her wounds have been acquired in an effort to eradicate. And yet, she loves him. And yet, she fights for him and protects him and chooses him over and over and over again. She chose him. She kisses him. She throws her arms around his neck. She tells him that she's ready. She sighs as his belt buckle clinks and his zipper is undone and he aligns himself with her the way stars do above the walls that cage in humanity, forever out of man's reach, embellished beyond the limitations that confine them. She wants this. She wants him. She chose him.

And then his heart leaps and crashes against the walls he holds within, the skeleton that harbors all the love he has for her. They become one, and the grunt that accompanies her grimace speaks of discomfort, but the reassuring buss she gifts him with secures all his frazzled, frayed ends and collects all his scattered pieces, makes him better, makes him whole. Everything melts away with the backdrop of endless rain, and the gaping, daunting chasm that splits him from the rest of the world is closed between their bodies. In her eyes, he finds his purpose. In her heart, he finds his life. In her voice, he finds the vestiges of his humanity. She is his home.

Neither of them finish. They stop when the sting becomes too much for her to bear. Eren is more than willing to respect her wishes, leaving her body the second she complains of too much pain. In another life, had their circumstances been better, or worse, they may have braved the whole way through it. But, laying in his arms, with her bare chest against his and her breathless silence breaking with the waning rain, she promises they will have the chance to do it again, over and over.

Eren can only hope she's right. He wonders what she might be like, had the world never forced her to rely on the empty promise of tomorrow.

 


	13. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Nothing great. I pumped this out in like 30 mins but I just wanted to say: Merry Christmas!
> 
> Rating: T
> 
> Genre: Domestic, I think.

 

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Mik. Just come out.”

“But I’m— No.”

“Mik.”

“Eren, I look silly.”

“Mikasa.”

“No.”

“Come on! I bet you look amazing.”

“Close your eyes.”

“They’re closed.”

“Actually close them, Eren.”

“They’re closed!”

“Okay. I’m coming out. No peeking.”

“Alright.”

“I said no peeking!”

He laughs. “Alright, alright!”

The door creaks open. She pokes her head out to peer at their bed. Eren sits among a mess of sheets and pillows, his back to the headboard, hands over his eyes, a stupid smile splitting his mouth. He titters, biting his lip. God, is he enjoying this right now.

Mikasa snorts. Gulps. Pries the door open farther.

And Eren is obedient (as he should be if he knows what’s good for him) and doesn’t move his hand from his face, despite the quiet giggles that rack his shoulders and flash the dimples on his cheeks.

“Can I look now?” he asks.

“No.” She wants to watch him.

Music murmurs quietly from his stereo, crawling up and down the walls of their small room. The air smells like incense, her breath stale with the hot chocolate that sits in her tummy, the taste of the extra marshmallows he dumped in just for her linger in her mouth. She wets her lips, tastes the sweet tinge of sugar and desire. With a soft breath, she straightens. Pulls her panties out from inside her ass.

“Okay, now. Open your eyes, Eren.”

Slowly, he does.

“Holy. Fucking. Shit.” He gapes at her, slapping a hand in his forehead. “Holy shit!”

She balks. “Is it bad?”

“Babe.” He clutches his chest, wheezing. “Oh, my God. Babe.”

“What?”

“Babe. Holy— _Babe._ ”

“What? What?” She frets, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Is it horrible? It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“No!” he blurts, starting. “It’s not, trust me. It’s not.”

“Oh.”

“Mikasa. You look…Wow.” Eren snorts into his fist, grinning. “I can’t believe you did it.”

“It was your idea,” she states, cheeks boiling ruddy. “Wanna see something?”

“Show me.” His eyes scour her body, take in the sultry piece she wears. Red bra. Red lace. Red stockings. So much red and, to make matters worse, Mikasa turns to show him the two little bells that twinkle just above her butt. She shakes her hips. They jingle. Eren nearly pees his pants.

“Do you like it?” she smiles at his laughter. He nods, holding out a hand.

“Come here,” he prompts, still laughing. Her underwear feels stiff on her body, ailing movements awkwardly. Nevertheless, she takes his hand and crawls onto the bed to join him, spilling freely into his arms.

They both groan, and he pulls her into an embrace that’s far too tight for what she’s wearing. One of her boobs nearly falls out of the cup. Fucking push-up bras.

“You are so cute,” he purrs into her hair, high off of her presence. They spent all day giving each other looks, knowing glances that hinted at what was to come later on in the night. And now that they are here, now that she’s in the lingerie Armin got them as a joke and that Eren dared her to wear to prove a point to no one, it’s all turning out to be a lot less like what they had planned out in their heads, and a lot more like the silly joke Armin had intended it to be in the first place. His hearty chuckle elicits one of her own. They smile. Sleepy. Tired. Happy. Both so happy. One of them with their panties dug up their ass. The other with his eyes going hazy.

“You know what?” Mikasa breathes, swiping his hair out of his face. “I think is has been enough to convince me never to wear lingerie again.”

“No!” he cries. “Why?”

“It’s uncomfortable. Too tight. And itchy.”

Eren smirks, running a hand down her spine to cup her ass. “All the more reason to take it off.”

She rolls her eyes. He pecks her nose, smiles.

“Merry Christmas, pervert.”

“You're the one in lingerie.”

“Next year, it's your turn.”

“WHAT!!!!”

“You heard me. Start looking at some dude thongs because next Christmas, it's you.”

“You're crazy.”

“You love me.”

“I love you,” he agrees. Hands to his chest, she locks their lips in a kiss so soft, so tender, it’s like the snow that rains down from the sky outside, dances in the wind. A sigh. A whisper. A breath.

“I have the most ungodly wedgie,” she complains into their kiss, which makes him smile. “Please, for the love of God. Take this thing off of me.”

“As you wish.”

It’s just like countless nights before. His fingers tangle in her hair, sear her skin, and toil with the pesky clasp between her shoulder blades, until a triumphant sound grumbles in his throat and her chest is barren of her bra. Hungry hands grow ravenous, and she smiles so often; it’s the greatest gift. As he works on denuding her, she’s clad in happiness, robed in love. The little bells jingle, fly across the room. But they decide to keep the stockings on. Just, you know, to prove a point to no one. No one at all.


	14. Flightless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do blind Mikasa? So nice eremika anguish over this would be interesting ^^" -Anonymous
> 
> Hello, there. It’s been a while.
> 
> Rating: K+
> 
> Genre: Angst

The firewood crackles with every quiet blink of the flames, which gleam off a heat that shrouds the palms of the hands that outstretch before them. Hands that have callused through the years, that have held weapons and blood and the last, rasping breaths of fallen comrades.

Eren sighs into the night, closing his eyes. It’s been so long since he joined the Survey Corps, he can hardly remember who he was before this all began. And growing up in a world consumed by madness has made him hard, has quelled a spirit that once smoldered. For he’s lost so much that, in a sense, he’s freed. He stands unburdened of the seal that branded him a traitor, the mob that gave him wings. Because that same refuge was so quick to turn against him, to declare all titans must perish, even him. And so it was that Eren finally learned how to fly, fleeing from the bands of angry blades held skyward with a cry, the friendly faces that crumbled into something so hard, so hateful, it made his heart go cold.

Though he may be exiled, he is not alone. The spare mug near the fire reminds him, the shadows of the blaze illuminating the corners her lips had touched, the footsteps that followed into the night and vanished into a room of the abandoned castle they find shelter in. And then, moments later, those very footsteps appear behind him, and Eren doesn’t need to turn to look, for he knows it’s her. Always her. Only her. She sits beside him.

Her body is lost to him under the blanket she has wrapped around her shoulders, an artifact she found upon arriving here. The remnants of some past life, still carrying the scents of its last owner. Life has a funny way of whispering its remains even long after it has vanished. Eren reaches out to feel her arm, and through the fibers and gently woven thread, he can sense every delicate line of muscle, the soft contours of her flesh, the bluntness of her bones. The reality of her figure by his side.

They say nothing.

But the silence they share is not empty, never empty, not with her. Her eyes are closed and Eren trails the backs of his fingers up her bicep, shoulder, neck, to her cheek. This makes her head turn, gently, to face him.

He eyes the tip of her nose, the individual preens of her eyelashes, and tries to gauge what lies ahead. But the future is bleak in front of them, tainted by the past they’ve left behind. A past that required her to hold the edges of swords to her friends’ throats, to take from the lives that had once granted her safety. For him. All for him. And always without question.

Eren holds her face, and her eyelids flicker before stretching back, slowly, to bare their clouded gaze. Her irises are stark, the color all drained out of them. He thumbs at the scar that stretches from one corner of her eye to the other, a crooked, smiling crevice she bears without the slightest hint of shame. Her lips move, but she is silent, Eren’s part with anticipation, the words at the back of his tongue yearning to be released. But he swallows them down. Simply holds her. For someday, he shall posses the courage to thank her, for everything, for all she’s done. It is because of him that she cannot see, and it crosses his mind how robbed she has become, how desolate. The two of them. Forever monsters in the eyes of the world.

“Mikasa,” her name tumbles out of his mouth, and she blinks. She cannot see him. She will never see him again. She will never be able to gaze at the sun, to watch it set and melt into the ocean, to observe the tiny palms of infant hands she helped create, to watch the essence of life she has breathed into the world around her. But then Eren thinks of how they were not made to experience these things. They weren’t built to make, only to take, to flee and fight and seek whatever shelter the cruel world grants them.

Her fingers coil around his wrists. The smile on her lips is faint, but very much there.

And he stares, ever in awe, at the silent strength she so direly possesses. His blind protector. His flightless bird. And he knows that with the passing of time, all their wounds will heal. Even the ones on her eyes. Even the ones in his spirit. But for now, this is enough. The silent heat of his palms upon her skin, the childish ruddiness of the apples of her cheeks, the gentle swell of her breath as she sighs into him, all enough. Because they’ve been carved out of the barbarity, the fury, the savagery of nature, to find peace, the vestiges of a good life, the ashes of hope scattered around for them to find. Together. 


	15. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed my tumblr url to sayaanara. Message me there if you want to send me any prompts! <3

Nails cut paths along spines, dragging lines that glow crimson. In an outpour of breath, she declares her love for him.

“Eren,” comes her voice, “I love you.”

He knows, he knows.

She bites litanies into his skin, marks that sting yet are quelled by her every motion, by every swift rise and gentle fall of her hips. He catches her. With cradled arms, he catches her, holds her, nuzzles her close to his chest. Their skins swelter, pressed flush together, the ends of his hair grazing the lines of her neck, bunching in her fingertips.

He helps her through her high, sighing words that fog the curves of her shoulders, the planes of her cheeks. When it ends, he collapses on her stomach, wallowing in every sway, every wave of her breathing. He kisses the skin just below her navel, says, “I have to go.”

“Don’t,” Mikasa implores. “Don’t.”

It’s so sad, so wrong, for the world was not made to hold a love like theirs, to weave two troubled souls together. They bear the scars of lives that were sworn to eradicate all evils, yet his powers are diminishing, his strength weakening, his will fraying at the ends.

It won’t be long before he’s gone. For good, this time. 

The lines on his back hiss and smoke as they heal. Slowly. Slowly. Slower than ever before. And Mikasa knows she’s being selfish, but his stubble prickling the pliant flesh of her thighs and his breath all hot on her skin as he crawls back up her body feels too right, too vital. She grabs him, begs him. “Don’t go, don’t go.”

And he kisses her. Kisses her.

Stays.


	16. Ventus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This is actually a Not Over Yet reject
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Genre: Smut

She kisses him.

Her lips crash with his, so clumsily and fervidly that their teeth clack. A second, two, then she pulls back to realize what has happened, his expression screaming not anger, but vulnerability and surprise. He isn’t a man who garners any repulsion toward her, only the whimsical, tender Eren that she knows. And before breaths can crawl back into her mouth, before words of apology can even develop, Eren grabs her face and pulls her to him, like a tidal wave crashing to the shore, his lips on hers bring about destruction.

But he tastes so sweet. So gentle. Mikasa doesn’t realize that she’s up on her tippy-toes, that her arms have thrown themselves around his neck, that her body feels so small when it’s pressed this close to his, because all that rules her is the desire to breathe, and he is her oxygen. Longing doesn’t describe it. When her tongue slips into his mouth and he welcomes the intruder, sliding his hands down the slender slope of her back all the way down to her ass, they contract, and he gropes her, and her moan is lost between them, cast off into his mouth. Her feet hardly hold her up, and just when she thinks she’s falling, he lifts her up. Her legs around his waist. Her back to the wall. She melts, melts, oozes down until they’re nothing but liquid pooling on the floor in a puddle of broken, breathless hunger.

He nips her neck, her throat, her shoulders and, sighing, she pulls on the straps of her own clothing, so that they’re bare and he hurts her better, hurts her more, a sinister vial she’s willing to bleed into. But he doesn’t. He’s gentle. Even now, he’s gentle. It irks her. It irritates her to no end. She parts her lips to protest, but then he’s coming back down on her, hailing like balls of fire. She catches flames.

Her fingers curl into his shirt. Off. Off. She needs it off of him. Closer. Closer. She needs him closer. His chest is warm against her hands, against the tops of her breasts, the stuttering beats of her chest. They’re tumbling on the floor and he’s on top of her, his back littered with the faint marks of her pressing fingers, the lines her nails drag down his spine. He wrestles his shirt off his neck and Mikasa sighs at the sight of him, tracing the lines of his skin, the ripples of his muscles, the shape of him. And then his lips are on her again, starved, groaning into her mouth when she parts her legs and he rucks into her, grinding his arousal against her core.

She gasps.

Breaks.

Stutters, “F-fuck.” Splintering in his palms, she claws at his flesh, bites back her mewls as her cheeks flush and his hand slithers between them, pressing hard between her legs. She breathes to utter his name but he’s gone, lost, ripped away from her. Too far.

And then in an instant, he is everywhere, marking her neck, gripping her, lifting her hips so he bucks into her harder, and Mikasa can’t control her noises, her mind reeling, seething with nothing but him, him, him. And she’s missed him. She hurts. So much. She hurts.

“Eren,” she whispers, his breath at her neck, hands in her hair, tugging back so that she arches, stretches wider. Her eyes roll back and she shivers, helpless under his weight, his force, withering, so willing. It’s when her eyes glaze over and she pushes her dress down by the sleeves to expose herself to him that his hands rush to find her pliant flesh, framing her breasts, squeezing, her perked buds at his palms, his mouth. He sucks on her peaks before nipping and tugging, letting them bounce back to her chest, the heat between her legs aching, her neck bobbing with her swallowed moans.

“I want you,” she tells him, so far gone. She grinds herself against him, cupping his hardness, sighing into his mouth. He suckles on her bottom lip, growls against her.

“Say that again.”

“I want you.”

Her hands are clasped above her head, held up by the wrists, his stubble grazing the sweep of her neck, that valley between her breasts, and he lets go of her to lap down her body, the curve of her waist, the low swoop of her belly, until he reaches the dress rolled around her hips. He kisses her through her clothes, breathes in her smell, pressing his tongue against her heat and relishing in her breathy little whine. She’s his. He made her. Selfish, he hoists her legs around his waist, pushing the flimsy fabric of her leotard to the side and running his finger up the dampness of her slit. He moans at the contact, curses under his breath. Burns. Aches.

“Who do you want?”

“You,” she gasps. “Only you.”

And he pushes inside her, closing his eyes at how she feels and reacts, how she tightens around his fingers, crying out. Their kiss is sloppy and messy and he swallows her cries, every saphenous groan of his name as he slips in and out of her, her eyes squeezed shut, hands thrown around her head in her bliss. They’ve gone too far, too far, but neither of them can find it in themselves to care now. He bites her shoulder, eating up her scent, tasting her. He hurts. Everywhere. And she lifts her hips so he can delve into her deeper, rasping against the shell of his ear, asking him, begging him, “Please, please.”

Her arms curl around his neck, her walls tightening around him, lips clenched between her teeth. Her cheeks flare red and the puckered peaks of her breasts brush the scarred planes of his chest, her heartbeat in sync with his, twin flames that burn together. 

“You feel so good,” he pants at her ear, and she breaks free, tilts her head back and moans loudly.

She carves bloody wings against his back. “Don’t stop.”

And he curls into her, a hand beside her head, the muscles of his back contracting under her fingertips. “Yes,” she breathes, sending a trickle of electricity down his spine. “Yes.” Her voice lacerates his sanity, letting him spill into her waiting palms. He hisses against her earlobe, draws languid circles on her clit and grunts when she responds.

Her mouth is blown wide open, spewing tiny, heaving breaths he muffles when he thrusts his tongue into her mouth, the veins at the backs of his hands flexing, his fingers pumping in and out. She feels amazing, his Mikasa, his girl, and he tells her he can’t wait to taste her, to feel her pulsing where he aches, breathing tiny praises that leave her dumb with ecstasy. Her hands are fumbling feverishly with his belt, undoing his zipper. She capitulates, dipping past the front of his jeans and gripping his hardness, his hips jolting at the contact, anticipating her tight heat. He remembers her that way, the way only he ever got to experience her, and he’s so close to her, her fingers caressing his length, her plush lips uttering her consent. Her wispy little voice curls in his ears as she commands him, his entire body trembling with want. And he closes his eyes and lets himself unfurl in her hands, a willing victim.

She pulls him to her.

And he sees her. Taking him in. Stretching and moaning at his girth. Promptly, he rocks above the smallness of her strong body, stifling his noises on her skin, screwing his eyes shut at the feel of her, all of her, when suddenly the world spins and he’s on his back, watching helplessly as she rocks and tilts her head back, locks of her hair stuck to her parted lips, swaying with her pants. He grips her hips and thrusts and stretches his neck back. Gasps. Moans. Loses himself.

They make love until he’s fraying, until his lip clenches between his teeth and he draws blood, until she shivers above him and collapses, her bare chest flush against his beating heart. He cradles her head against his neck, swallowing, and she tells him it’s okay, tells him to finish, her voice a breathless litany when they twirls and she crumbles beneath him, the pink of her cheeks swarming down to her chest, and he kisses her there, kisses her and bites his cry into her shoulder, releasing the momentum pented up within himself.

“I love you,” she whispers when it’s final, when he’s tarnished her with his sin. But she’s so brave, so willing.

He says he loves her too.

  
  



End file.
